


these late eclipses

by ScottieIsImpatient



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Angst, Drama, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mystery, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Swearing, Temporary Amnesia, is malcolm dead? maybe, supernatural-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:34:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 56,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25735120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScottieIsImpatient/pseuds/ScottieIsImpatient
Summary: A surprise encounter with a hostile species leaves Trip with amnesia and Malcolm pronounced KIA. However, when Trip wakes up from a three week coma, the first thing he sees is his friend. A ghost? A hallucination? Not even Malcolm himself knows why he's still there, or why only Trip can see him. The answer may be in the initial sudden alien attack but to pursue it is a dangerous path for everyone.
Relationships: Malcolm Reed & Charles "Trip" Tucker III
Comments: 195
Kudos: 64





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one's a long one. The total chapter count may change but for the first time in... well, ever, I actually have the whole thing planned out! This was inspired by a prompt my brain gave me at 1am "what if malcolm was a ghost?" and then things escalated from there. 
> 
> So is Malcolm really dead? Knowing me, I don't think you'll ever truly find out until the time is right ;)
> 
> (Thanks to Rowan for beta reading, offering me accurate medical advice, AND giving me the title! You're awesome, my dude)

When Trip is finally lulled out of his peaceful void of silence, he’s greeted by harsh lights that can belong to none other than sickbay. This, of course, elicits the typical question every crewmember asks themself when they wake up in sickbay: _why am I here?_

Bits of pieces of the world fall into place, albeit blurry, including a killer headache that makes Trip groan. Out of the corner of his eye he catches movement on the next biobed over.

Over the next few minutes, Trip blinks himself back to reality and assesses every part of his body to the best of his ability. Nothing hurts as far as he can tell, but is that a good thing or a bad thing? Phlox must have him on some kind of drug if he’s not feeling anything. There’s also the slight numbness in his brain that’s making him slow to respond.

He wiggles his fingers and toes. They all seem to be there. Indeed, the only thing wrong with him that he can make out is the headache that’s splitting his skull open.

Finally, his vision clears up. With a groan, Trip lifts himself up to his elbows and glances around the place he’s become all too acquainted with. Something seems different about it, though he can’t quite put his finger on it.

When Trip’s eyes land on the man on the adjacent biobed, it takes a few seconds for his brain to catch up.

“Malcolm,” he croaks. God, his throat is dry. When was the last time he had water? It seems like…

Trip freezes. It seems like _days_ since he last had a glass of water, not to mention food. But he couldn’t have been out for days, could he?

Malcolm’s still staring at him expectantly, so Trip clears his throat. “Malcolm,” he says a bit louder this time. “Yer looking…” Malcolm’s looking surprisingly well, actually. Not a single mark on his body, nor a scratch on his uniform. His hair seems a little more mussed than normal but, after all, they both seem to be in sickbay. “What kinda trouble did we get into this time?” Trip whispers with a soft chuckle.

Malcolm just continues staring at him, his brow furrowed as if in deep concentration. Trip frowns. “What? Yer kinda freakin’ me out, here.”

Malcolm shakes his head as if to clear it and whispers, “do you remember?”

Once again, it takes a few moments for Trip’s brain to catch up. “Remember what?” he asks.

But before Malcolm can elaborate, Phlox appears out of thin air and makes his way to Trip with an abnormally large smile on his face. “I must say it is good to see you awake, Commander Tucker.”

Trip moves his gaze from Malcolm to the doctor, still squinting against the harsh light. “Wha’ happened?”

“You may be feeling a little dizzy or weak-” Phlox has completely ignored the question “- but that’s entirely normal. You haven’t had a proper meal in… oh, it must be three weeks now.”

Trip’s mouth gapes open. Three _weeks_? He’s been out for three weeks?

“Please don’t try and pull your IV out,” says Phlox, grabbing Trip’s wrist where he had unconsciously begun reaching for the source of the strange prick in his arm. “That’s what has been giving you your nutrients while you were in a coma.”

“C-coma?” Trip repeats weakly.

Phlox smiles but there’s a hint of anxiety behind it. “Not to worry, Commander,” is all he mutters, which doesn’t help Trip in the slightest and only serves to make him worry more. He’s starting to get a little fed up with everyone’s reluctance to tell him anything.

“Oh, the captain wanted to be notified of when you woke up.” Phlox finishes fiddling with the monitor and bustles towards the back of sickbay. “I trust I can leave you alone for a couple minutes, hm?”

“Uh, yeah,” Trip responds when he catches up. “Tha’s fine.”

Once Phlox has vanished, silence falls in the sickbay, save for the beeping of Trip’s monitor and Malcolm’s occasional shuffle.

Trip then returns his gaze to Malcolm. “What happened?” he tries again. “Why’d he ignore you?”

Sadness fills the Lieutenant’s eyes. “You really don’t remember.”

“Remember _what_?” Trip snaps.

Malcolm looks away and purses his lips.

“Answer me, Lieutenant, that’s an order!”

His outburst causes Phlox to come darting back out again, concerned. “Commander?”

Trip feels his own heart rate increasing; feels the blood pounding in his ears on top of the killer headache that’s only gotten worse because of his frustration. “Out with it,” he hisses. “What happened?”

Phlox looks between Malcolm and Trip. Malcolm just shrinks back further and shakes his head, refusing to meet Trip’s gaze.

“Commander,” Phlox says carefully, “perhaps it would be best if you would go back to sleep.”

Sleep? Trip isn’t sleeping. Not now. He needs _answers,_ goddamnit.

With a small sigh, Phlox bustles over and presses a button on Trip’s monitor and something numbing makes its way into his bloodstream. Trip’s eyelids flutter close against his will and he fights to stay awake.

“Why won’t Malcolm tell me anythin’?” Trip hears himself say as the drugs take over. At the last moment before he falls into darkness, he sees a look of horror cross Phlox’s face.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back so soon with another chapter. Updates from here on out will get more irregular unfortunately, as I'm at my cottage with limited internet for the month. However, I wanted to get this fic out before I start college in September.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Everything checks out – at your current rate of progress, you should be ready for full duty in little under a week, Commander.”

“Mhm.”

The doctor’s words bounce off Trip’s ears as he sits cross-legged on the biobed, his gaze lost somewhere in the void. He’s been awake for four days and still nothing has been made clear to him. Whatever happened in the three weeks that Trip missed no one wants to talk about. Aside, of course, from Phlox giving him the quick summary when Trip became persistent: sudden alien attack, heavy damage, blah blah blah.

What he does know, though, is that the Malcolm currently standing on the other side of sickbay staring at him cannot possibly be the real Malcolm.

“Light duties only,” Phlox continues, a bit louder, perhaps, to catch his attention. “Do you understand?”

“Light duties only,” Trip echoes.

Phlox breaks into a smile. “Good. Has the captain come to see you?”

Indeed, he has. They hadn’t talked much; no one ever did around Trip. Neither Hoshi, Travis, or T’Pol would give him any clue as to what happened, and Archer was the worst of them. The man seemed… well, lost, is the best word to describe it. Confused, even. Unsure of what their next move should be.

Moving his gaze to Malcolm-who-couldn’t-be-Malcolm, Trip thinks he doesn’t blame the Captain.

“He did,” Trip answers after having realized he’d been sitting in silence for a good few seconds. “He told me that he’d debrief me sometime today or tomorrow.”

“Very good.” Phlox tosses his PADD onto the nearby desk. “If you would follow me, it’s time for your physiotherapy session.”

Trip groans loudly. “Not again. I feel fine, doc, really.”

“It’s not a question of whether you feel ‘fine’, Commander, it’s a question of whether your legs can support your full weight. Why don’t you try to stand?”

Trip carefully slips off the biobed, one hand grabbing the mattress so tight his knuckles start to turn white. Though his legs shake from weeks of neglect, he manages to stay upright. “See?”

“Mhm.” Phlox raises an eyebrow. “Now let go of the biobed for me, please.”

Trip’s smile fades.

So, Phlox leads him to the back of sickbay, where an engineering team installed a set of bars sometime while Trip was out of it. Though he hasn’t been out of sickbay since he first woke up, a couple of his crew have come by to see how he’s doing. By the sounds of it, word of his weakened physical state has spread quickly. He tries not to think about it too much.

Malcolm-who-can’t-be-Malcolm watches with a thoughtful stare as Trip struggles across the bars. Trip almost snaps at him, then, remembering who he’s with, manages to shut his mouth just in time. He can’t have people thinking he’s crazy.

Even if it’s getting harder and harder to convince himself otherwise.

A week later Trip is finally released from sickbay with a case full of hyposprays and instructions to exercise daily that he fully plans to ignore. He just wants to get out of that gawd-awful place, which reeks of antiseptic and taunts him with memories he can’t quite explain. Archer patting his arm; Hoshi talking about a new alien culture; a pair of sad grey eyes watching him. Phlox tells him it’s likely the things that happened which he was in a coma coming back to him. Whatever the explanation, Trip is sick of it. He just wants things to return to normal.

He stumbles unsteadily along the hallway, only pausing for a few seconds to catch his breath or maybe talk to the odd ensign before he continues. He’s not what he used to be, that’s for sure. Just how in the fresh hell is he supposed to get back to work when he’s here tripping over his own feet like a newborn foal?

 _Oh, I don’t know, maybe by actually listening to the doctor’s recommendation?_ says a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Malcolm’s.

Trip turns to look at the man, not entirely convinced it wasn’t said out loud. Malcolm-who-can’t-be-Malcolm just stares back with an eyebrow raised. Trip huffs and looks away.

After what seems like hours, Trip finally reaches his quarters. Malcolm quickly slides in just as the door closes as if he were afraid of getting trapped on the other side.

“What,” Trip says flatly, “I thought you could walk through walls? Bein’ a ghost an’ all.”

“I can’t walk through things,” retorts Malcolm. Then, to prove his point, sticks a hand out and leans against the wall. “I’m not a ghost.”

“Oh? Then what are you?”

Malcolm hesitates. “I’m not sure.”

“Perfect,” Trip snorts. “Yer just a figment of my imagination.”

“Then tell me why this ‘figment of your imagination’ remembers things you do not.”

Trip gives him a long, hard look. “Some kind of subconscious bullshit,” he decides finally. “Listen, I don’t need this right now. Go back to whatever realm you belong in. I’m gonna take a shower.”

Really, all he wants to do is sleep for the next six days but having gone almost four weeks now without a proper shower has left him feeling absolutely filthy. His hair is practically dripping with grease and his overgrown fingernails are caked with dirt, not to mention the beard he’s grown. It’s not as long as it could be, however, prompting Trip to believe someone must have shaved it while he was out. He forces the image away.

“I have no desire to watch you shower,” Malcolm states sharply, “and there is no ‘realm’ I can return to. I’m stuck here whether you like or not, Commander.”

“Great,” Trip mumbles once he’s closed the bathroom door, “as if things weren’t already confusing, I’m bein’ haunted.”

Trip deliberately avoids the mirror, not having any desire to look at himself. He turns the shower on, strips off his jumpsuit, and steps under the warm stream of water. For a few minutes he stares at his own thin arms, transfixed at how the drops leave trails on his dirt-encased skin. Without anything to cover himself, he can finally see just how much weight he lost in those three weeks.

Physiotherapy and solid foods have helped him regain a bit of fat and muscle mass but still his fingers long and bony and look as if they would break at the slightest bit of stress. His legs are even skinnier and shake at the struggle to keep him upright, and he can actually count his ribs through his skin. “I’m a goddamn skeleton,” he mumbles to himself.

That’s when his legs give way and he crashes onto the cool tiles.

“Trip?” Malcolm’s voice calls through the door. “Are you okay?”

Trip groans and does his best not to throw up. “Fine,” he answers eventually. “Just overestimated my strength. I’m alright.” He pauses. “Don’t come in.”

“I can’t anyway.”

Trip pulls himself back to his feet, using the glass wall to steady himself. He finishes his shower quickly, foregoing any attempt to wash his body and instead focusing on his hair. It takes two rounds of shampoo to get the grease out. A taxing effort, but at least it feels lighter.

He wraps the towel around his waist and steps into his main quarters, not wanting to crawl back into his filthy jumpsuit. He tugs on a simple grey T-shirt and sweatpants.

“Can I turn around now?”

Trip startles at Malcolm’s voice. He spins around so fast he almost whacks his head against the wall. “Huh?”

“Can I turn around now?” Malcolm repeats, articulating his words. He has his back to Trip, his hands stuffed in his pockets. Trip forgot he was there.

“Uh, yeah, I guess.”

Malcolm sighs and turns around, then looks Trip up and down and says, “well, you look better.”

“I feel like shit,” Trip responds, bringing a hand to his beard. “Should I shave?”

“Probably for the best. That is, if you don’t want stares on your way to the mess hall.”

“How did ya know I was goin’ to the mess hall?”

Malcolm shrugs. “Waking up from a coma, you haven’t had much in the way of solid foods. Also, you look like a walking skeleton.”

“Even as a ghost, you still know me,” Trip says with a small smile.

Malcolm reciprocates, but it’s noticeably strained, and his eyes aren’t smiling along with his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you Rowan for giving me accurate medical advice for coma patients


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trip learns the truth. Or part of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of things going on in this chapter. Hope it's not TOO too messy.

Trip, having succeeded in only cutting himself twice while shaving, shuffles rather sheepishly into the mess hall fifteen minutes later. A couple of heads turn to look at the sight of their chief engineer, clothes practically hanging off his thin frame, but those who do return to whatever they were doing pretty quickly. Trip is grateful for this.

Careful not to bump into anything, Trip makes his way over to the selections and pulls off the first thing he sees, which happens to be a bowl of tomato soup and crackers, and heads over to one of the empty tables. Some of the crew smile up at him as he walks by.

He gets through the walk relatively unscathed and sets his tray down. Ridiculous as it is, he’s paranoid the slightest noise will call himself to everyone’s attention. He feels like a monkey on display in one of those twenty-first century zoos.

Malcolm – Trip’s resigned to just calling him Malcolm by now – stands awkwardly to the side with his hands stuffed inside his pockets. “Aren’t ya gonna sit down?” Trip asks in a whisper.

Malcolm raises an eyebrow, puts his hand on a chair and moves to tug it away, only nothing happens. It remains glued to the ground like a rock.

So Trip uses his feet to push out one of the chairs for Malcolm to sit in and prays that no one will try and take the spot. “What happens if you… bump into someone?” he asks out of curiosity, breaking a cracker into his soup.

“That’s the weird part,” Malcolm sighs. “It appears that, just as if with inanimate objects, I cannot pass through people. I merely bump against them.”

“Do they notice?”

Malcolm furrows his brow. “They don’t seem to. I have yet to test if, for example, someone was to try and sit in this seat while I’m here. Who knows?” He gives a dry chuckle. “Maybe I’ll be sent flying across the room.”

Trip forces a smile and takes in some soup. It goes down rather easy, compared to the oatmeal Phlox tried to feed in the first few days. However, his stomach still not adapted to large quantities, Trip’s bowl remains half full.

Movement out of the corner of his eye prompts Trip to glance up from where he’d been staring off at nothing. Hoshi is making her way towards him, her ponytail bouncing as she walks. Likely on a lunch break. Trip smiles one of the first genuine smiles he’s done in weeks and stands up to embrace her.

“Hey,” he mutters into the neck of her uniform.

“It’s good to see you,” Hoshi says in return.

They pull away and Trip sees tears in her eyes. For an awkward moment they stand there, staring at each other, until Hoshi breaks the silence.

“You’re looking much better.”

Trip glances down at himself, then back up. “I still look like a skeleton.”

“You’ll get there,” she reassures him. “It’ll take some time. I hope you’re keeping up with the physiotherapy Phlox assigned you.”

“I thought he was bound by doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“I never said he told me,” Hoshi says slyly. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

Trip nods hurriedly and pulls a seat out for her. Thankfully, she doesn’t question why one of the others is already slightly ajar. Trip flashes a nervous glance at Malcolm, but he’s got his head down, fiddling with his hands.

“Has Captain Archer told you anything?” Hoshi begins gently.

Trip shakes his head. “I should be meetin’ him today, though. Hoshi, please, tell me.” He places a hand on her wrist, perhaps just a little too tight. “What happened to Malcolm?”

Malcolm’s head goes shooting up. Hoshi’s face turns white and Trip immediately regrets the words that have come out of his mouth. _Insensitive bastard,_ he chastises himself.

“I-I’m sorry,” Hoshi stutters, “I’m really- I’m not-”

“It’s okay,” Trip says hurriedly.

Hoshi swallows. “You’re talking to the Captain soon, yes? I’m sure he can, uh… he can fill you in.”

“Hoshi, I’m sorry.”

“No, Commander, please.” The linguist takes a deep breath. “You have a right to be curious. I’m just not sure that I’m the best person…”

Trip nods. “It’s okay. I understand.”

Hoshi sniffles and opens her mouth, then seems to second guess herself and closes it again. “I need to go,” she whispers. “I have bridge duty.”

“That’s fine. Uh, good luck.”

He watches her as she leaves the mess hall and does not miss the fact that she turns right instead of left. With a groan, he lowers his head onto the table and wraps his hands around the back of his neck. “God damn it, Tucker.”

Malcolm stays quiet.

The call to meet in the Captain’s ready room comes quicker than Trip expects it to. He’s in the middle of a nap when the intercom chirps, waking him up with a start from what was bordering on the edge of a nightmare. Malcolm was left out in the hall; Trip didn’t feel like being watched in his sleep.

“Tucker here.”

_“Trip,”_ comes the Captain’s voice. _“Feeling any better?”_

“Tons, actually.”

_“That’s good. Can you meet me in my ready room in, say, five minutes? I don’t think it’s fair to keep you in the dark any longer.”_

About time, Trip thinks. Out loud he says: “I’ll be right there.”

Trip pulls on a sweatshirt and slides the door open. Malcolm’s sitting on the floor a few feet away, his back leaning against the wall, his knees tucked to his chest. When the door opens, though, he leaps to his feet and straightens his uniform. He falls in step with Trip, who isn’t sure whether he’s glad to have the company or fed up with constantly being tailed by a ghost.

“Ready room?” the Lieutenant guesses.

Trip nods curtly. “Though I can’t see why you couldn’t jus’ tell me everythin’, Malcolm. Since you seem to remember so much.”

“I don’t actually. It’s just bits and pieces. Flashes.”

“Huh.”

Malcolm narrows his eyes. “You think I’m lying.”

“Nah. I just think it oddly coincidental, is all.”

“I keep telling you,” Malcolm insists, “I really don’t know how to explain it. Besides, if _I,_ a ghost, told you what happened, how would you explain tha- AH!”

Trip whirls around at the sudden cry, all malice in his voice forgotten and replaced with worry. “Malcolm?”

The man in question has fallen to his knees, hands on either side of his head as if trying to squeeze it. Another moan of pain escapes his lip and Trip drops down beside him. “Malcolm?”

Malcolm groans and forces his eyes open. “Don’t worry.”

“ _Don’t_ worry?” Trip echoes in disbelief. “Malcolm, how can I _not_ worry when yer lying here practically squeezing yer own head?”

“It’s fading,” Malcolm gasps. “It’s fading. Don’t… don’t worry.”

Still unsure, Trip places a hand on his arm. He does a double take when flesh connects and realizes some part of him was convinced his hand would go right through Malcolm.

With a grunt, Malcolm uses the wall to get to his feet. “It happens sometimes,” he explains. “I don’t exactly know what it is… or what causes it… but _bloody hell,_ does it hurt.”

“It looked like it.” Trip musters a weak smile. “Cap’n’s waiting. You still coming?”

Malcolm nods and they continue down the corridor.

After quick discussion, both men decide it’s for the best that Malcolm wait outside. He takes up residence in a corner of the hallway, seemingly fascinated with the grooves along the wall. Trip watches him for a bit and has to remind himself that this isn’t the real Malcolm, then he presses the ready room doorbell.

There’s some shuffling before Archer’s invitation of, “come in.”

Trip’s rarely seen the Captain these past few days, aside from glimpses in the hall, but he looks like hell. Worse than Trip, even. From the rumours Trip has heard, Malcolm isn’t the only one they lost in the mysterious alien attacks. A pair of off-duty ensigns were killed when a portside wall blew out.

Still, at the sight of his third in command – and best friend – Archer manages to smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Bored, Cap’n.”

“Knew you would be. Please, sit down, Trip. This isn’t formal.”

Somehow, that makes it worse. A part of him wishes it were formal, and that he could take in information in a disconnected, on-duty type way.

The way Malcolm would.

“First of all,” Archer begins with a sigh, “I want you to know that I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you everything when you first woke up. Phlox told me not to say to much, as it could affect your… recovery rate.”

“But he’s given you the all-clear now?”

“He has.”

Trip purses his lips and nods.

“I’m sure you’re aware of the sudden attacks on Enterprise last month?”

“I know we were attacked, sir. Unknown aliens, is that right?”

“It is,” Archer says. “We had no idea what their configuration was, but their ship was fast and ten times as powerful as ours. Do you remember what you were doing prior to the attacks?”

Trip shakes his head.

“You were on the bridge, at Malcolm’s station while he was on break. One of the blasts made a massive dent in our portside, and engineering was, in Lieutenant Hess’ words, ‘on fire’. You ran down to help. Something occurred – I’m not quite sure, everything went by so fast – but you somehow got caught unconscious between a doorway. Phlox told us you hit your head quite bad.”

Trip reaches up to touch the top of his head, which of course, bears no visible or tactile scars of this event anymore.

“Malcolm comm’d in, saying he’d found you. He got you out in time before the aliens’ tore open that very section of the ship. Thanks to Travis and Lieutenant Hess, we jump-started the warp drive to put some distance between us and the enemy and found ourselves free of any pursuers.

“It took us forever to assess the damage and get our wounded to sickbay. You were hurt pretty bad, Trip. Along with some head trauma you suffered a brief lack of oxygen when the wall blew, which greatly narrowed your chance for waking up without… permanent damage.”

“Well, my brain feels the way it’s always felt,” Trip tries to joke. Even he can tell when something flops.

“Did you find those aliens again?” he asks to fill the awkward silence.

Archer shakes his head. “We couldn’t risk going back. We don’t know why they didn’t track our warp trail and just finish us off, but I’m glad it worked out like that.”

“So am I.” Trip pauses. “And Malcolm? What happened to him?”

Archer’s face drains of all colour; his eyes turning shiny with tears. “We can’t say for certain, Trip,” he chokes out in a voice barely above a whisper. “No one else was there except for you and Lieutenant Reed.”

God, he’s getting so sick of this! All this dodging around the truth like he’s some fragile child. Malcolm’s gone and everyone knows it, so why is everyone so reluctant to tell him _how_? “What happened to him?” Trip asks, a bit more forcibly.

Archer raises an eyebrow in surprise but a look of understanding also crosses his face. Of all people, it’s Captain Archer who knows how impatient his chief engineer can be. “Phlox said that you’d suffered a brief moment where you lacked significant oxygen. He believes that Malcolm may have shut the door between the sections just as the wall blew, effectively…” Archer takes a deep breath, “…launching him into open space.”

Trip feels like all the air’s been sucked away from the room. How ironic is that? He feels like laughing, actually. He tries to laugh. It comes out as a strangled sob. Dimly, he’s aware of a hand touching his shoulder, and a calm, low voice asking if he’s alright.

“No,” he answers truthfully. “I’m not.”

It’s one of the first times he’s ever admitted it.

Trip feels lost. Alone. So horribly alone. Malcolm is gone- he accepted that. Or, he thought he had. Is it because he knows the reason that he feels this way? Is it because Trip himself _is_ that reason?

“Did you get him back?” Trip asks in a choked whisper, his eyes glued to his hands.

The answer is both expected and unexpected at the same time. “No,” Archer says sadly.

Trip’s gaze snaps up. “Did you even _try?”_ he snarls. The image of Malcolm frozen, floating in space for the rest of eternity, appears unbidden in his mind. “Or did you just run off and leave him there?”

“We _tried,_ Trip.” Tears dance at the edges of Archer’s eyes. “Once we were repaired, we went back. We found debris, but our scanners picked up no bodies.” He pauses. “They were gone.”

Trip’s mouth hangs open. “Gone? Ya mean to tell me… aw, hell, did the aliens take ‘em?”

“We don’t know.”

Trip lowers his head once more, his mind drifting. It drifts to Malcolm, who only died because of Trip; whose body has vanished but a part of him stands just outside the door. Trip feels a tear roll down his cheek. “Malcolm…”

Before he knows it, he’s being pulled into a hug. He’s too weak – or maybe unwilling – to fight against it. It lasts only a few seconds before Archer breaks them apart and his sad green eyes are once again staring into Trip’s dull blue ones.

“Get some sleep,” the captain says softly. “I’m putting you back on the roster for light duties tomorrow, and I need you at your best.”

“Aye, sir,” says Trip.

A chill envelopes him when he steps back into the corridor, though he can’t tell where it’s coming from. His mind is whirring at warp five yet is asleep at the same time; his feet feel like lead, but his head feels completely empty.

He walks by Malcolm, who’s sitting down against the wall again, without a single word. Malcolm scrambles to his feet and follows along behind, but says nothing, perhaps already knowing what information Trip has just discovered.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter here. It's also a bit dialogue heavy, please forgive me for that.

It’s dark. It’s dark and he can’t see a thing- not even the faintest bit of light. It’s like he’s gone completely blind.

He can hear noises, though. Feet shuffling. Metal shifting. Someone breathing heavily, as if they’ve just run a long distance. They come from all around him in disjointed, confusing segments, and he can’t pinpoint any one noise.

Until the scream, that is. The scream is easy to find.

It’s coming from within his own head.

The voice is distantly familiar and laced with an accent he _should_ know. It cries out in pain and anguish and fear. It cries his name.

“ _Trip!”_

Trip kicks himself awake, smacks his leg against the wall, and promptly falls off the side of the bed onto his side, temporarily winding him. He lies like that for a long time, just concentrating on his breathing, telling himself over and over again that _it was only a dream. It was only a dream._

But it seems much more than that somehow.

Trip eventually forces himself on shaking legs and fumbles for the light switch. A childish fear of the dark has taken him hostage- he isn’t going back to sleep any time soon. His heart is racing like it’s going to explode, and his _head_ is killing him again.

Without thinking, he calls sickbay.

“ _This is sickbay, Phlox speaking.”_

Trip’s tongue is dry. What should he say?

 _“Hello?”_ There’s some tapping on the other end. “ _Commander Tucker, are you alright?”_

“Yes,” Trip gasps. “Uh, no. Ca-can you come over, please, doc? I’m… not feeling well.”

 _“I’ll be right over._ ”

When the comm clicks, Trip takes a step back and breathes slowly. His heart rate still refuses to come down. He can hear the blood pounding in his ears.

He goes to the bathroom and splashes some cold water on his face. What he could really use is a drink.

The doorbell rings not two minutes later. “Come in,” Trip calls and flops onto his bed. _Man, Phlox is fast._

The door slides open and the doctor steps inside, trailed quickly by a rather worried looking Malcolm. Trip averts his eyes quickly, forcing himself to focus on Phlox kneeling in front of him.

“Are you feeling ill, Commander?” the doctor asks immediately, a scanner appearing in his hand. “Headaches? Nausea?”

“Headaches,” Trip confirms.

Phlox nods, reaches into his bag, and pulls out a hypospray. “This should help.”

“Thanks.”

“Your heart rate is elevated,” Phlox continues, “and you appear to be showing signs of distress.” Then, with a tone more akin to a father than a doctor, he asks, “did you have a nightmare, Commander?”

It takes a while for Trip to force himself to nod. He ignores the ever-increasing expression of concern from Malcolm.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

Trip shakes his head.

“I see.” A pause. “You should know that, uh, while my specialty isn’t in therapy, my door is always open if you ever wish to talk.”

“I heard what happened to Malcolm,” Trip blurts out, unexpectedly to even himself, but now it’s out there and he can’t take the words back. “Cap’n Archer told me.”

“That must have caused quite a shock.”

Trip laughs humourlessly. “It did. Ain’t that funny, though? We all knew he was gone- _I_ knew he was gone.” His gaze flickers to Malcolm in the corner. “An’ yet, a part of me refuses to believe it.”

“It’s hard,” Phlox says softly, “to accept the death of someone so close. May I sit?”

Trip shrugs so Phlox moves to sit on the edge of the bed beside him.

“I was not as close to Lieutenant Reed as you are, Commander, but I grieve with you. _Enterprise_ lost, as you would say ‘one hell of a security officer’, and more importantly, a good friend.”

Trip yawns. He’s starting to feel tired again.

“If it’s any comfort,” the doctor continues, “he went quickly.”

It’s not any comfort, really, but Phlox is trying his best, so Trip offers a smile.

“Perhaps you do not follow this particular belief, but I have been doing my research on human theories of life after death."

 _Ah, great_ , thinks Trip. Just what he needs - a speech on the possible afterlives.

"I have stumbled across an old earth creature known as a 'guardian angel'," says Phlox cheerfully.

Trip stifles his laughter. "A guardian angel?" he repeats in disbelief. "You think that's what's goin' on?"

Phlox shrugs. "Denobulans are not one for the supernatural, Commander, but I thought perhaps I could offer some more familiar suggestions."

"Seems unlikely," Malcolm mutters. "Me? An angel?"

This time Trip does laugh.

Phlox smiles nervously. "Commander? Did I say something funny?"

“Nah, not you.” Trip yawns again. “Malcolm seems to think the idea of him bein’ a guardian angel is a bit far fetched.”

 _Oh, damn._ Why the hell did he say that? He feels his body go cold and by the looks of things, Phlox is stunned, too. “Excuse me, what was that?”

Trip sighs heavily. “Nothin’.”

“You told me that Lieutenant Reed thought the notion of being a guardian angel far fetched.” A hint of suspicion crosses the doctor’s face. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

 _Aw, hell._ Trip buries his face in his hands. “I’m not insane.”

“I never said you were,” Phlox says patiently, “but I need you to tell me what’s going on.”

Reluctantly, Trip brings his head up. There’s wetness around his eyes from tears he hadn’t even noticed until now. A humourless smile crosses his face. “I can see Malcolm. He’s right in that corner-” he gestures towards it, “-an’ he’s been followin’ me since I woke up.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of sickbay scenes lately, couldn't really work around that. There's one more after this and then I'm done with them - promise.

Trip rubs his eyes and groans, barely aware of Travis nudging him with his foot and saying, “your move, Commander.”

“What?” Slowly, Trip drags himself out of his half-asleep state and ponders the checkers board in front of him. “Oh. Right.”

Travis frowns in concern. “You don’t look too good. Are you alright?”

“Fine.” Trip lazily hops one of his black pieces over Travis’ kinged red. “New medication jus’ keepin’ me up at night, is all.”

“Have you told Phlox?”

Trip scoffs. “Are you kiddin’? Nevermind the psych eval he made me take; I’ve had enough of jumpin’ around different medications. Anyway, this one’s workin’ the most outta all of ‘em.”

It’s not much of a lie- in just a few short days, Trip’s paranoia has decreased, and he’s had no nightmares, but that could just be due to the fact he’s not sleeping at all. Of course, Malcolm remains as solid as ever, despite the medication Phlox has started him on. At risk of sounding like a Vulcan, it throws all logic out the window.

“I’m glad to hear it,” the helmsman says with a small smile. “Also, you shouldn’t have moved like that.” With three jumps, all in quick succession, Travis has taken the far lead and now has Trip trapped in a corner.

“Damnit.” Trip thumps his fist playfully against the table. “How d’you always do that?”

Travis shrugs slyly. “Our cargo ship would have small tournaments among the family- that is to say, the crew. Chess was typically what I favoured, but I beat my brother a fair amount of times in checkers, too.”

Trip sighs and shakes his head. “I haven’t played this in forever.”

“You up for another round?”

“Ah, I would, but unfortunately I gotta meet with Phlox now.”

“More scans?”

“Yeah.” Trip rolls his eyes. “As if the MRI wasn’t enough. I had ta lie still for two hours, Travis. Two hours! Y’know what a man notices when he has ta lie still for two whole hours?”

Travis laughs. “I don’t envy you, Commander. I’ll see you at dinner tonight?”

“Seeya.” Trip gives the young an ensign a quick salute before getting to his feet and stepping out into the lounge. Malcolm, who’d been lounging on one of the couches, runs after him without a word. Neither of them has talked much since Trip admitted to seeing Malcolm in the corner that one night.

 _“A hallucination may seem real, Commander,”_ Phlox said, _“especially one of this sort, but you have to remember, it’s not.”_

As if it’s just that easy, Trip thinks to himself.

They reach sickbay in silence. The doors whoosh open and Phlox glances up from the cage he’d been bending over, a grin on his face. “Ah, Commander! Right on time. This way, if you please.”

Trip follows the doctor like a robot, already locked in a routine he’s told will last for weeks, if not months. He sits down on the biobed and fiddles with his hands, which are much to soft and clean to belong to an engineer, while Phlox gathers all the equipment he needs.

“I’m going to take a small scan of your cerebral cortex, Commander,” the doctor says right away. “Sit still, please.”

So, Trip sits still, thankful that at least he isn’t lying down, restrained to a platform underneath a screaming beam of light.

“Thank you. You may sit up now.”

With a grunt, Trip pulls himself back up into a sitting position. “How long’s this gonna take, doc? My break is ending in ten minutes.”

“Oh, you’ll be back in plenty of time,” Phlox reassures him with a smile. “Any headaches or nausea as of late?”

Trip considers this. He had a bout of dizziness when he woke up this morning, but that could just as easily be from the mere three hours of sleep he got. “None,” he decides finally.

“Lack of sleep or too much sleep?”

Trip snorts. “A bit,” he admits truthfully.

Phlox frowns. “In what way?”

“I, ah, haven’t been sleepin’ very well.”

“I see.” Phlox scribbles something down on the PADD. “The medication I have you on is known to cause that side effect in some cases. Perhaps I can start you on something else.”

 _Oh, dear god, no,_ Trip pleads in his mind. He doesn’t want to have a switch over for the third time in such a small time frame. “Is that really a good idea?” he tries. “I mean, I haven’t even broken into these ones yet.”

Phlox purses his lips. “It _is_ rather soon… however, I would hate to see you collapse at your post because you haven’t been sleeping well. Let’s give it a few more days, hm? I’ll ask the Captain to keep you on light duties for now.”

Well, it’s better than nothing. Maybe he can even act more convincing by the time the next checkup rolls around.

“Are you restless,” Phlox asks, “or lethargic, perhaps?”

“Neither.”

“Have you been exercising lately?”

Trip feels his face turn a shade redder and the doctor draws his own conclusions. “You do realize your speedy recovery depends on regular exercise and not medical ability, hm?”

“I never said I wasn’t exercising,” Trip spits out, flustered. “I’ve just been a bit… busy.”

“Busy?”

“You did put me on light duty.”

“So, I did,” Phlox hums quietly. “Perhaps I was a bit rash in that decision then.”

Trip’s eyes go wide. “Please, doc. Work is all I have to… distract myself.”

Phlox gives a slow nod. “I understand, Commander. I wish to keep you on duty as much as you wish to stay, but you must realize it works both ways.”

“Yeah,” Trip sighs.

Phlox’s face breaks into a smile. “Moving on. How would you say your mood’s been?”

“Pretty level.”

Phlox taps something else into his PADD. “And what about… your hallucination? Has it appeared lately?”

Trip goes cold, biting his tongue so as not to scream at the doctor, _Malcolm isn’t an ‘it’!_ Denial and anger only seem to set him back further in Phlox’s eyes. The first time Trip told him about Malcolm, Phlox had gently tried to convince him how unrealistic it would be. Well, he used better words than ‘unrealistic’, but the sentiment remained. Honestly, could Trip blame him? He’d think someone seeing what he sees was crazy, too.

“No,” he says after a slow, calculated breath. “No, not recently.” He dares not even move his gaze from where it’s stuck to the floor, fearing that it will unconsciously drift over to Malcolm standing in the sickbay doorway.

“That’s great to hear,” says Phlox, genuinely cheerful. “Just give me one moment to catalogue these results.”

Sickbay goes quiet, save for the occasional rustling of the odd animal. Trip shuffles his weight uncertainly. “Hey, uh, how’s my MRI lookin’?”

“I have yet to examine the results fully, Commander,” Phlox says without looking up, “but so far I have found nothing, apart from elevated levels of stress in your amygdala. I believe this may be a part of the possible PTSD.”

“’scuse me- PTSD?” Trip repeats in disbelief.

Only now does Phlox look up. “It is still too early for me to make an official diagnosis,” he explains, “but I think it highly likely.”

“Sorry, but how can I have PTSD from something I don’t even _remember_?”

“You do remember it,” says Phlox. “Somewhere deep in your mind, the memory is stored. It may take some time, and the results may be quite disturbing, but I have faith you will regain your memories.” Then, with a smile that absolutely does not fit the tone of his previous words, he says, “well, I’ve completed my assessment, and you’re free to return to duty.”

Trip grins and slides off the bed. “Awesome.”

“Er, just one thing.” Phlox puts a hand on his shoulder as Trip is about to bolt out of sickbay. “Do try and get some rest for me, Mr. Tucker. And please, my door is always open should you need, hm?”

Biting his lip, Trip nods. This father-like persona Phlox has kept hidden for so long… Trip has to say, he isn’t exactly as weirded out as he thought he’d be. “I’ll try, doc.”

Phlox smiles and makes a _go on_ motion with his hand.

Being back in engineering seemed more like wishful thinking than an eventuality little over five days ago, but now that he’s been given the all clear by Phlox, Trip has never been more glad to see his crew bustling about when he walks through the doors every morning.

“Afternoon, sir!” Crewman Fletcher greets with a smile, shouting over the hum of the machinery he’s using. Trip gives him a small salute and, having caught another one of his crew waving him over, begins to climb the ladder up to the catwalk.

“What’s up, ensign?”

“Sometin’ isn’t right wit’ tis couplin’,” Ensign Drake says, his Irish accent thickened the way it is when he’s tired. Having taken over the night shift every couple of days, it’s to be expected.

Trip gives a lopsided smile and gently nudges the ensign out of the way. “I’ll take care of it, Drake. You go on a bit of a break, yeah? Have you had lunch?”

“No, sir.”

 _Ain’t that familiar,_ Trip thinks, shooting a subtle glare at Malcolm, who has taken to watch some of the engineers at work. “Get down to the mess hall. That’s an order, ensign.”

“Aye, sir.”

As Drake slides down the ladder, Trip turns his attention to the panel he opened. “Now, what’s wrong with ya?”

Some of the wiring near the back is fried by the looks of it, effecting the connection between it and the couplings, previously hidden by a pair of conduits. He’ll need some replacements.

“Heya, Almack!” He leans over the railings and calls down to the ensign, “d’ya think you could grab some of the spare wirin’ that’s in my desk? Third drawer.”

“Yes, sir,” the ensign calls back and goes to retrieve it.

Trip leans against the railing and casts a glance at Malcolm. His face is slightly scrunched up, his hands over his ears. “Did I yell too loud for ya?” Trip’s about to say, which is when the Lieutenant drops to his knees.

Not caring who’s watching, Trip immediately falls to Malcolm’s side, hoping it’ll look like he’s just seeing to another piece of engineering. “Malcolm?” he hisses as loud as he dares. “Can you hear me?”

Malcolm mumbles something under his breath and screws his eyes shut.

Trip frowns. “I can’t hear ya.”

“No,” Malcolm gasps out. His rapid, wheezing breathing makes it harder to make out what it is he’s saying exactly. “You can’t… you’re not getting that…”

“Sir?”

Trip whirls around from his awkward crouched position on the floor to find Ensign Almack staring at him expectantly. A roll of spare wiring is clutched in his hand. Trip springs to his feet, dusts himself off, and takes the roll with a muttered “thanks.”

“Is something wrong?” Almack glances down to where Trip was sitting and Trip almost side-steps to try and conceal Malcolm, before remembering that Malcolm doesn’t seem to be visible to anyone else.

“Nothin’s wrong,” Trip assures him. “Thanks for this. You can return to yer duties now.”

Almack gives him an odd look but steps back down off the catwalk without another word.

With a sigh, Trip turns back to Malcolm. Though his face is pale and he’s still shaking a bit, he seems to be recovering from… well, whatever the hell that episode was.

“Lord, that was…” Malcolm fumbles for the right word. “Strange,” he decides on.

Trip gets to work unrolling the wires, keeping a careful eye on his not-a-ghost friend. “Was it anythin’ like the one you had in the hall the other day?”

“More intense,” Malcolm says unsurely. “I’ve had one like it before, while you were unconscious. It’s like these… images force their way into my mind and try to reach for something. Like a bunch of invisible knives drilling their way into my skull.”

“That don’t sound pleasant at all.”

“It’s not.”

Trip carefully cuts off a piece of the wiring and sets to work reinstalling the connection. “Any clue as to what it could be?”

“None,” Malcolm says with a shake of his head. “None at all.”


	6. Chapter 6

The inside of sickbay is becoming much too familiar for Trip’s taste. _A second home,_ says a taunting voice in the back of his mind. He forces it away.

Trip looks around sickbay in abject boredom, tapping his feet against the tiled floor. Phlox invited Captain Archer to join them, feeling the information was something the captain needed to be aware of. _Let’s just hope he don’t think I’m crazy,_ Trip thinks.

He slouches in his seat and yawns. His secret double shift from last night is catching up with him. He stretches his arms above his head, forgetting the shelf that hangs above him and whacks his already sore knuckles on the metal bars. With a yelp, he brings his arm back down to his chest. One of Phlox’s creatures squeaks.

“Smooth,” says Malcolm.

“Shut up,” says Trip.

Sickbay doors open and in comes Captain Archer, his expression blank.

“Ah, Captain!” Phlox exclaims, bustling over. “Right on time.”

_Five minutes late,_ Trip thinks.

“I’m a bit busy right now Phlox,” says Archer coldly. “This won’t take long, will it?”

“Not at all,” Phlox reassures him. The captain’s tone has not phased his cheerful demeanor. “Come this way, both of you. I have the results from the MRI scan I gave Commander Tucker two days ago.”

Trip meets Archer’s gaze and nods in greeting, which the captain reciprocates. Then they walk over to stand by Phlox, eyes on the screen above the bio chamber. Trip can’t make heads nor tails of the images on the screen; only knowing they are his scans because Phlox told him so.

“This is what I found,” the doctor begins. Tapping on the wall remote, it zooms in on a scan Phlox clearly finds interesting, but Trip can’t distinguish from the others. It seems to be somewhere at the back of his head. Or the side, maybe?

Archer clears his throat. “We’re not doctors, Phlox. Tell us what we’re supposed to be seeing.”

“Right.” Phlox enlarges a section of the scan. “With doctor-patient confidentiality in mind, captain, please understand that I cannot divulge certain information. However, there are some things I feel you should be privy to.”

“Get on with it,” Trip mumbles.

Phlox points to the screen. “This right here is the imaging scan of Commander Tucker’s brain. Over here his amygdala and hippocampus are showing signs of elevated activity, but that is due to his amnesia and subsequent stress.”

It just looks like a jumble of colours to Trip.

“The frontal lobe has checked out normal as well. I went over my results twice to be sure.”

Trip scoffs in frustration, the medical talk sounding like gibberish to his ears. “So, what’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing,” Phlox responds. “According to my scans you are perfectly healthy, save for some elevated stress levels. There is no major chemical imbalance anywhere in your brain. There is absolutely nothing wrong with Commander Tucker, Captain.”

Trip blinks. That can’t be right. “But what about the…” realizing Archer is still in the room, trails off. _What about Malcolm?_ He wants to ask.

Phlox reads his mind. “If you wouldn’t mind, captain, I’d like to speak with my patient in private.”

“Go ahead,” Archer says wearily. “I should be getting back to the bridge anyway.”

“Seeya, Cap’n.”

Archer nod in return and steps swiftly through the sickbay doors. Trip waits until he’s out of sight before he asks, “if there isn’t anythin’ wrong with my brain, why am I seein’ Malcolm?”

“Your _hallucination_ ,” Phlox corrects him. Trip bites his tongue. “And I have no answer, Commander. It could be a side effect to PTSD or anxiety. In rare cases hallucinations can occur in such mental illnesses, but it would have to be one big trauma.”

“I apparently watched my friend get tossed out inta space,” Trip says sharply. “Ain’t that enough ‘trauma’ fer you?”

Phlox frowns. “The human brain is a difficult thing, Mr. Tucker. One of the most complex parts of your otherwise simple physiology. I can’t provide a conclusive answer, even if I had more scans.”

Trip nods solemnly, avoiding Malcolm’s gaze.

“I did, however,” Phlox swipes through some images on his PADD, “find an odd imbalance in your prefrontal cortex.”

“My what?”

“The part of your brain responsible for acknowledging visual stimuli,” the doctor clarifies. “You appear to be under great strain or confusion by something you are seeing.”

_Understatement of the year_ thinks Trip.

“I haven’t seen anything quite like it in all my years of experience.”

“You don’t need more scans, do ya?” Trip asks in apprehension.

Phlox gives a smile that fills Trip with dread. “Nothing too intensive, I assure you.”

“Great,” Trip mutters, already making his way towards the biobed. “What is it now? Another one of my brain? Maybe my ass? You haven’t taken a scan of my ass yet.”

“I don’t need such a scan,” says the doctor politely; the sarcasm goes right over his head. Not Malcolm’s, though, for the man gives a muffled chuckle from across the room. Phlox rummages around one of the drawers before pulling out a small hand scanner. “Just a quick scan of your prefrontal cortex. I want to confirm or deny a few theories of mine.”

Trip waits patiently – as patiently as he can be, that is – for Phlox to finish his scans and release him from the clutches of sickbay. “Thank god,” Trip mutters as he heads for the doors. “Jus’ get me outta here.”

It hits him like a physical blow to the abdomen. The words he spoke, like a baseball bat, knocking the wind out of him and simultaneously sending him back, to another place at another time.

Red drips past his eyes, partially obscuring his vision. His head hurts – everything hurts. He feels like he’s been hit by a truck.

Malcolm. Malcolm comes running down the hall, his eyes wide. Trip forces a smile. “Thought you were on break,” he slurs.

Malcolm kneels down beside him. “Don’t speak,” he instructs. Fumbling about in the flickering lights, he sets to work trying to figure out why the door is jammed. “Stay with me, Commander.”

A spike of pain goes shooting up his spine. “Just get me outta here,” Trip moans.

“I will,” Malcolm promises with a tight smile. “I will, okay?”

The words overlap in his mind until it’s just a jumble of noise and groans and screams and Trip can’t take it anymore; he places his hands over his ears, trying to block them out but it’s no use.

_Trip._

“Go away,” he mutters.

“Commander.”

“Trip.”

There’s something about the voices that’s familiar. Something compels him to trust them. Trip opens his eyes.

His sense of touch returns first. Slowly he becomes aware of the ground beneath him; of the painful way he’s managed to twist his leg under his ass; of Phlox’s hand on his shoulder. Next comes his vision and he realizes he’s still in sickbay, leaning against a set of cupboards. From behind Phlox, Malcolm is watching with a worried expression. Then returns the rest of his senses and reality rebuilds itself.

Trip staggers to his feet and groans as a spike of pain cuts through his skull. Phlox whips out his scanner immediately, running it vertically along the commander’s body. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” Trip’s about ready to throttle the next person who asks him that. “I’m fine. Just a…” He frowns. A panic attack? A memory lapse?

“The condition of your hippocampus is improving. Did you experience a vision of the past, perhaps?”

The way he words it makes it sound like a prophecy. “Uh… maybe?” Trip answers unsurely.

Phlox nods in encouragement, helping the commander to a nearby chair. “Would you like to tell me about it? I’m sure I can help in one way or another.”

Trip wants nothing more than to just escape sickbay and bury himself in work for a few hours, but Phlox is clearly not letting him go, so he has no choice but to tell him. When he’s finished. The doctor is looking at him with a thoughtful expression.

“It seems to be an accurate description, though I can’t confirm it entirely, as I wasn’t at the scene.” He pats Trip’s shoulder and smiles. “You seem to be quite alright now. This is good news, Commander. The rest of your memories will soon make themselves known.”

Considering what he saw – what he _felt_ – Trip isn’t sure he wants to remember the rest.

“You may return to your quarters now,” says Phlox. “Try to get some rest. Don’t think I missed the fatigue in your body.”

“Damn,” Trip curses playfully.

Malcolm follows him silently into the hall, his grey eyes permanently wide. Trip knows why.

“So,” he asks slowly, coming to a brief stop in the corridor, “was it accurate?”

Malcolm seems to go a shade paler. “Yes,” he whispers. His tone sends a shiver up Trip’s spine. Just like him, Malcolm doesn’t want to talk about it either.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know that life goes on,  
> long after you and me,  
> but when I hear our song,  
> it’s like a time machine.”  
> \- Time Machine, Fancy Cars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a blast to write. Guilt? Angst? Loving banter? Absolutely amazing lmao.
> 
> Another shoutout to Rowan for dealing with my eternal pestering to beta read this xD

Almost three weeks after Trip wakes up, they give Malcolm a memorial service. There’s chatter of whether the captain is going to release an empty casing into space – there being no body, after all – which Trip soon finds he can’t listen to. Most times he escapes to the gym, fulfilling his promise to Phlox of routine exercise. Trying to stay on said routine is a little difficult, though, when one has a figure following them that no one else can see.

“Service starts in an hour,” Malcolm says, interrupting Trip’s count yet again. “Did I really mean that little to you?”

Trip sighs in exasperation and lets go of the shoulder press bars. His muscles burn from repeated starting and stopping; he’s starting to shake a bit. “For the last time,” he says, “will you shut up? Just ‘cause I don’t wanna be there an hour _early_ don’t mean I don’t wanna go at all.”

“I was joking,” Malcolm clarifies quietly.

Trip grabs his water bottle from under the bench and takes a swig, eyes darting around the room in case anyone caught his strange outburst. Fortunately, the only other members of the crew in the gym are Crewman Baird and Ensign Meng, and they both have headphones in.

Malcolm lets out a long, steady exhale and slowly sinks into a cross-legged position on the padded floor. “A memorial service.” As if reacting to a bad joke, he chuckles and shakes his head. “For _me._ ”

“Yer a member of our crew,” Trip says gently.

Malcolm looks up at him from his position on the floor. There’s a pained look in his eye. “So were the other twenty-three aboard who died during our search for the Xindi vessel. So were the two ensigns who were also thrown out into space last month. Where were their memorials?”

Trip goes silent. Just like that, his ability to speak has disappeared. Images flash through his mind: his sister, the expanse, a single lit candle, T’Pol, Degra. Without even realizing it, Trip’s sunk into a hunched position with his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” Malcolm’s voice cuts through the wave of despair. “I didn’t mean to make you relive… certain memories.”

Trip raises his head and blinks back tears. “It’s a’right.” Then he sighs. “I don’t get ya, Malcolm, I really don’t.”

“Sir?”

“Even when yer a ghost- ah, apparition; spirit; whatever! Yer still the same ol’ Malcolm. Stubborn, stiff, and by-the-book so much it physically hurts. You can’t even wrap yer head around the idea that _maybe –_ just _maybe –_ you could be important ta someone?”

Malcolm blinks, a bit taken back by Trip’s ramble. “Sir, I-”

“An’ don’t say yer sorry.”

“Sor-”

Trip gives the lieutenant a glare and he cuts himself off quickly.

“I suppose it never occurred to me,” Malcolm continues after a beat of silence, “that I could still have… friends, even as a security officer.”

Trip smirks in victory. “An’ it only took ya bein’ shoved out into open space to realize that.”

A wince flashes across Malcolm’s face but he recovers quickly. “I suppose so,” he says with a small laugh. “Bloody typical, now that I think about it.”

Trip laughs along with him, not minding the strange glance Ensign Meng gives him as she leaves the gym. “A’right, just gimme ten minutes on the treadmill, yeah?”

Malcolm raises an eyebrow. “You’re not going to fall off like last week?”

“I overestimated myself then,” Trip says, shooting him a playful glare and rubbing the sweat from his face with a towel. “I’ll go on a lower speed, I promise. Why’re you so worried anyway?”

A smile spreads across Malcolm’s face. “Just looking out for a friend.”

Typically, a memorial service would occur in the launch bay, where the deceased is laid to rest inside a casing and sent out into space in a spectacular farewell. Having no body to do this with, the available crew gather in the lounge, the second largest area on board.

“Pity,” Malcolm says under his breath. “I would have loved to go out with a bang.”

Trip doesn’t comment on this. The weight of grief in the room is suffocating, even more so when he realizes that the reason for the delayed service is him. Him and his damn coma. A part of him is relieved they waited; another part calls him selfish for it.

He rubs his sore arms absentmindedly and wishes he’d taken his exercise routine slow.

“Commander.”

“Hm?” Trip turns around, coming face to face with Ensign Sato. “What is it, Hosh?”

Hoshi bites her lip uncertainly. “Captain wants us standing at the front. The senior officers.”

“Oh.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Malcolm raise an eyebrow.

“We were just concerned,” Hoshi continues. “I’m not trying to say that you can’t handle anything but-”

“It’s the weight I lost, ain’t it?” He doesn’t mean for it to come out harsh and regrets it immensely when Hoshi winces.

“Yeah…”

“Hey, Hoshi, it’s alright,” Trip reassures her, gently laying a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, ‘kay? I can handle standing up for a few minutes. It’s not like I’m gonna pass out up there.”

“Of course not, Commander.” A smile dances across her lips. Raising her arm, she asks, “shall we go?”

“Yes, we shall,” Trip responds, a slight lilt in his voice, and takes her by the elbow.

But when he takes his place up in front of the solemn crowd the anxiety returns, clawing at him ruthlessly. Hoshi lets go of his arm to stand by Travis and Trip almost tells her to stay. Being alone, the only one standing to the right of Archer, is distressing to say the least.

In desperation, Trip scans for Malcolm. The man seems to have disappeared somehow and Trip feels a chill pass through his body. Malcolm was always there no matter what. Now he’s disappeared seconds before his own memorial service.

 _What if I_ am _imagining it?_ Trip thinks in panic. _What if he’s gone – really gone – and I’m just going insane from grief?_

His breathing is becoming rapid and he forces himself to take slow, deliberate breaths. No one needs to see their chief engineer have a panic attack up in front of everyone - he’s already weak enough in their minds as it is.

And then he spots him. At first, just another worried face in the crowd of dozens, but the slightly mussed brown hair and wide grey eyes make him stand apart.

Trip’s shoulders relax, the tension releasing like a wave as relief washes over him. The anxiety is gone. He can breathe again.

Malcolm still eyes him with worry. Trip gives him a quick nod, hoping the message gets across, and straightens up as Archer takes a step forward.

The captain looks like he hasn’t slept in days. His eyes are sunken and have dark circles under them, and his hair is the farthest from being its usual neatness than Trip has ever seen. His uniform seems to hang off limp shoulders and the small shake in his hands does not go unnoticed.

“Good evening, everyone,” Archer begins. His assertive tone immediately quietens the last of the chatter in the room until everyone is standing at attention, their gaze on the captain.

Archer clears his throat before resuming. “It never gets any easier for a captain, for a crew, to say goodbye to one of our own. The loss of life means the end of a story. Today we mourn the loss of such a story, but we also honour what he did for us in life.”

 _Like save me from gettin’ squished in between a door,_ Trip thinks without warrant.

Drawing in an unsteady breath, Archer goes on. He talks about Malcolm’s attitude and stoic demeanor. He applauds Malcolm’s bravery in the Delphic expanse and recalls his professional attitude even when his allegiance was questioned (although what he mentions is the bare minimum, prompting Trip to wonder why this incident especially makes Archer tear up).

“Even in the end,” Archer says after a moment, “Lieutenant Reed portrayed a sense of nobility and pride in his every action. I regret immensely that his time aboard was cut short in such a manner, but I hope he will find peace among the stars.”

That last line must be automatic, Trip thinks, for Archer looks incredibly guilty the moment it comes out of his mouth. T’Pol looks up at him with an expression that could almost be concern, but Archer waves her off and calls an abrupt “dismissed” to the crowd of mourning crew members.

Suddenly very conscious of his shaking legs and tear-stained face, Trip staggers off to the side and leans against the wall. Malcolm walks up to him, perhaps a little surprised to find the commander grabbing the windowsill with white knuckles but doesn’t mention it. “It feels odd to attend my own bloody memorial service,” he says instead.

A weak chuckle escapes Trip’s lips. “Now d’you believe we care about ya?”

“It still seemed a bit…” Malcolm searches for the right word. “Over the top,” he decides finally.

Trip blinks at him. “Over the top? Malcolm, it looked like the cap’n was gonna start bawling up there. We woulda launched ya into space in a casing had we our own way. If anything, it was _under_ the top.”

Malcolm breaks into a smile and opens his mouth to reply, but something catches his eye and he gently nudges Trip in the foot. Trip turns his neck just in time to see Commander T’Pol making her way towards them – or him, rather.

“Commander Tucker,” she greets as steady as ever. Trip pushes himself off the wall, ignoring the subtle shake that remains in his legs, and nods in return.

“Commander T’Pol. What’s up?”

“I caught sight of you leaning against the wall and thought I would come over to see if you were alright.” Having served on a human ship for over four years, she has come to realize that the question ‘what’s up’ should not be taken literally.

“Oh, uh,” Trip casts a nervous glance off to the right before meeting T’Pol’s eyes again, “thanks, but I’m fine. Just a little bout of shakiness. Nothin’ to be afraid of.”

T’Pol raises her signature eyebrow. “I see. You are looking rather flushed and seemed to be unsteady on your feet when the captain was speaking. Are you sure you are-?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Trip repeats. “Look, just take my word for it, will ya? I don’t need everyone on board constantly monitorin’ me.”

“I assure you, Commander, they are not monitoring you.” Then, taking a deep breath and allowing her voice to soften, she says, “it is alright to grieve, Trip. One must not shut out their feelings in the wake of such a loss.”

The use of the nickname is what lurches Trip back to attention. “You haven’t called me that in…” how long’s it been? Months? Possibly over a year, by now.

“I hope I was not too forward.”

“No, no,” Trip assures her hurriedly. “It’s alright. I, er… I appreciate it, T’Pol.”

The commander offers the Vulcan equivalent of a comforting smile and, bowing her head in farewell, walks away. Trip watches her go, a feeling of longing stirring in his stomach, but not a longing to rekindle the flame. No, it’s far too late for that, and he finds the prospect undesirable. He doesn’t quite know what the longing is for. A sense of normalcy, maybe – for things to go back to the way they were. Or perhaps for a friendship with the person who will understand the most.

“I thought you said things were over.”

Malcolm’s voice forces him out of his thoughts. “What-?”

“Commander T’Pol,” Malcolm supplies, gesturing in her direction. “On that Romulan ship, and then after the… well, you told me things kind of fell apart.”

“They did. What, are you plannin’ ta chase after her as a ghost?”

Malcolm’s eyes widen. “Lord, no! I was just curious, is all. You two seem rather friendly.”

“Men and women can be friends without things goin’ on in between, Malcolm,” Trip says exasperatedly.

Malcolm raises his arms in surrender. “Very true. My apologies.” He glances around at the now sparsely populated room. “Everyone is leaving. Should we get out of here?”

“Yeah.”

A couple of ensigns stop and express their regrets for Malcolm at Trip. Why him, Trip doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s because Malcolm was never close to anyone else except a select few of the senior crew. Even Travis knew little about their security officer, and Malcolm was arguably the most relaxed around him.

They turn a corner and a sound prompts Trip looks at the right-hand wall. There’s a large section of it that doesn’t match with the rest of it. For a brief, innocent moment he wonders why. And then, suddenly, it all comes rushing back.

He stops in his tracks, his breath hitching. Frozen in terror, eyes wide, he can only watch as the wall comes apart right in front of him, revealing a vast expanse of open space and unfamiliar ships firing their weapons.

“Trip.”

Someone has their hand on his arm. Trip swats it off and whirls around, only to find Malcolm standing in a very much intact corridor. “I’m okay,” Trip says hurriedly, anticipating the Lieutenant’s question. “Just another one of those…”

“Flashbacks?” Malcolm offers.

“Sure. Let’s just keep goin’.” He dares not glance back at the wall; fearful his eyes will fall only on empty space again.

About halfway to Trip’s quarters Malcolm asks, unprompted, “Are you going to see Phlox?”

“’scuse me?”

“We’re on route to sickbay,” Malcolm points out, gesturing behind him. “If we were going to your quarters, you’d have taken a right instead of going straight.”

Trip smacks his hand to his forehead. “Ah, no, actually. I guess I was just a bit distracted. Stupid memory flashback still has me shaken, an’ we did just attend your funeral.”

“Memorial service,” Malcolm corrects, “and so we did.”

They turn around and head back the way they came. _My brain is more scrambled than I thought,_ Trip thinks. Then, as if the universe wants him to prove it, he yawns.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I wish that we,  
> could stay here forever,  
> I want to remember.”  
> \- Remember, Levianth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rejoice - for I should be getting into more of a pattern pretty soon!
> 
> Ah but seriously, our stay at the cottage is almost done, and even though I'm starting college in September, it's all online. I'm not even working so I'll have plenty of time to write and edit and update. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter! Trip isn't feeling too confident lately, where will that take him...?

“A planet?”

Trip stands next to the tactical station, now taken over by Ensign Meng, staring at Archer incredulously.

“It’s a Minshara class,” the captain explains. “I just thought- Trip, the crew hasn’t had a break in over three months.”

“An’ you wanna send us on a shore leave? Not two days after Malcolm’s service?”

Archer’s face goes a shade paler. “Trip…” The warning tone is obvious in his usually level voice, but Trip is too tired to care. Nightmares kept him up all night. What’s worse is that a part of him is still not convinced they were merely nightmares.

“Did he really mean that little to you?” Trip snaps, unconsciously parroting the words Malcolm spoke to him the day previous. “So little that yer just goin’ about pretendin’ nothin’s happened to him?”

Archer’s face darkens. “Commander-”

“If I may, Captain,” T’Pol interrupts at just the right time. Archer looks between his science officer and Trip before eventually raising his hands in defeat, falling back into his chair. T’Pol turns her attention to Trip.

“What Captain Archer is proposing is not an attempt to forget what happened,” she begins. “Rather, it is an offer to relieve the stress many of the crew are feeling. Including you, Commander.”

“Me?”

“You are showing signs of increased impulsivity and irritability – more so than usual.”

Trip has half a mind to applaud the jab at him. T’Pol has picked up on many human attributes in her time aboard _Enterprise_.

“A shore leave on an isolated planet is hardly a celebration.” T’Pol raises an eyebrow as she says the last word. “In terms of Lieutenant Reed, though his service of memorial may have occurred only two days ago, but it has been exactly a month and two weeks since-”

“Don’t say it,” Trip interrupts, closing his eyes tightly. “I get it, okay? I get it.” With a sigh, he opens his eyes again. “Plan the damn shore leave; it’s a good idea. I’ll be in my quarters.”

He can feel everyone’s eyes on him as he steps into the turbolift. Once inside, alone, he lets himself sag against the wall. T’Pol is right – his irritability is at an all time high and he’s more stressed than ever. Phlox stacking prescription upon prescription on him; balancing work with exercise; the memories that just seem to keep flooding back at random.

The lift stops on B deck.

 _And Malcolm,_ Trip thinks.

Malcolm who doesn’t seem to be an apparition nor a hallucination. A double no one else can see, perhaps, is a possibility that’s entered Trip’s mind. They have seen stranger in the Expanse.

Malcolm’s waiting in the corridor just outside Trip’s quarters. When he sees Trip approaching, he straightens immediately, a small smile crossing his face. “How was bridge duty?”

“Not now,” Trip snarls. He punches in the code harshly and falls onto the bunk the moment he’s inside. Malcolm stands a few feet away – Trip can feel his eyes on him – unmoving; unspeaking. Finally, the commander is the one who initiates conversation.

“We’re gettin’ shore leave.”

Malcolm cocks his head to the side. “Could you repeat that, sir? Your voice is muffled by the pillow.”

So, Trip flops onto his back and repeats himself. “Cap’n’s sendin’ us on shore leave.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I’m not disappointed.” Trip sighs slowly. “It just… it don’t feel right.”

Again, Malcolm tilts his head, a frown crossing his face.

“We just had yer memorial service,” Trip elaborates. “An’ I know the Cap’n means well, but it just feels weird.”

“I may have only recently had a memorial service, but it has been over a month since the incident itself,” Malcolm points out.

A humourless chuckle escapes Trip’s lips. “That’s exactly what T’Pol said.”

Heavy silence falls in the room. Malcolm shuffles awkwardly; clears his throat. Trip hugs his pillow to his chest like a child. Eventually, Malcolm takes a seat on the edge of the bunk. It’s eerie how Trip can’t even feel the extra weight.

“Shore leave isn’t a bad idea,” Malcolm says quietly. “After all, I’d hate for things to fall apart just because…” he seems reluctant to say it, but the point gets across. Looking down at Trip he adds, “I really don’t mind. In fact, I encourage the idea.”

Trip grins and nods. “’Course you do. I just wish I’d realized before I went off at the Cap’n.”

Malcolm’s eyes go wide. “You did _what_?”

“I’ll apologize later!” Trip exclaims. “It’s just as T’Pol said – I’m getting more and more edgy by the minute.”

“Oh, as if _that’s_ new.”

“Hey!” Without thinking, Trip chucks the pillow at him. Malcolm raises his arms just in time, but instead of catching it, the pillow bounces off him like it’s hit a force field and sags into a lump on the bed. Both men stare at it for a minute, then, tentatively, Trip extends a hand to touch Malcolm’s shoulder.

He’s met with familiar warm flesh.

“That’s odd,” Malcolm says aloud.

Trip leans back and rubs a hand across his forehead. “I don’t even wanna think about the physics of this.”

“I’m surprised you know what physics even is.”

“Shut up!” Trip flashes him a playful glare and Malcolm smirks in return. At least their banter hasn’t been lost in this situation, Trip thinks.

“So, when are you going?” Malcolm asks.

Trip fiddles with his hands and shrugs. “We’re about a day an’ a half away from the planet - some already named thing the Vulcans found whenever ago. S’pposed to have nice scenery.”

“Any mountains for Travis to climb?”

“I dunno.” The side of Trip’s mouth quirks upwards. “It better, though. Man deserves a break. He seems ta always be at the helm no matter what. I swear he doesn’t sleep.”

“Well,” says Malcolm, “let’s hope this shore leave has a better result than our one at Risa did.”

“You just _had_ ta bring that up, didn’t ya?”

“Are you sure it’s uninhabited?”

“Positive,” Trip says before Malcolm’s even finished his sentence. “Small, green, not even a microbe. Ain’t no bars for male aliens to disguise themselves as _female_ and lure me into a basement.”

A smirk appears on Malcolm’s lips. “Sounds lovely. You’ll enjoy yourself, then.”

Lovely indeed, Trip thinks, and just before he turns around, he swears he catches a flash of longing in Malcolm’s eyes.

It feels strange to be relaxing so soon after a tragedy. Though a part of him wants to scream and refuse to take even a single break, Trip has to admit that he’s never felt calmer and more carefree. He stretches out and folds his arms behind his head, skin glistening slightly from his swim in the lake. The sun beats down hot but not harsh, drying him off quickly. He may go for another swim soon; they have the time. Or maybe he’ll join the engineering crew in the basketball game they started.

Malcolm wanted to come. Malcolm was more than willing to sit bunched up in a corner of the shuttlepod which struck Trip as odd, especially when he saw the hint of fear in the man’s eyes. Fear of what? He didn’t ask. Eventually, Malcolm submitted to staying behind.

 _And thank goodness for that,_ Trip thinks. He can finally have his thoughts to himself.

A set of footsteps start to get nearer and nearer. Trip cracks his eyes open with a disgruntled sigh, wondering who it is that’s disturbed his dozing.

Captain Archer stands above him with a weary expression. Trip springs into a sitting position, suddenly _very_ aware of the fact that he’s wearing nothing but his boxers. “Cap’n.” He scrambles for his shirt and trousers. “I, uh-”

Then, much to his surprise, Archer sits down on the sandy shore next to him without a word. Trip notices the beer in his hands at the same time Archer seems to remember he has them. “A peace offering.” With a smile, the captain holds one out to him.

Trip takes it hesitantly. “Thanks. Sir.”

“Just call me Jon,” says Archer in a tone that’s almost exasperation. “We’re on shore leave. No formalities.”

“Aye, sir. Jon.” Trip hasn’t called him that in years. The nickname died along with the old Archer in the Expanse.

The old Trip died in there, too.

Trip forces a gulp of beer down his throat, just a little more than he can handle, for he ends up in a sputtering coughing fit that ends with Archer slapping him on the back, hard. “S-sorry,” Trip chokes out once it’s ended. “Swallowed the-” a cough “-wrong way.”

“Happens to the best of us.”

With a final cough, Trip sets his beer down in a small hole in the sand and sighs, watching the waves. The water is an unbelievable shade of blue with little alien plants sticking through the surface at odd intervals. The trees around them are a combination of green and orange, reminding Trip of home, even if the orange is a little too bright to belong to an Earth tree. He could get lost in the scenery alone. Perhaps coming down for shore leave was a good idea after all.

He’s about to voice this admission but the captain has other things on his mind.

“A couple of days after the attack,” Archer begins, “you woke up. Or we thought you did, I should say. The brainwave readings confirm you were still asleep. This was before you slipped into a coma.

“Something must have triggered it. We still don’t know what. Either way, your eyes were open, Trip, and you were speaking to us. Screaming, more like.” His face turns sullen, eyes gazing into the distance. “Screaming about things we didn’t understand. You thought we were out to harm you; you said you wouldn’t give ‘it’ to us, whatever ‘it’ is. Sometimes you’d scream Lieu- Malcolm’s name. Other times it would be your own.” Finally, Archer turns his head to meet Trip’s eyes, and there’s sorrow in Archer’s green eyes. “Do you remember any of that?”

Trip feels numb. He remembers nothing of what Archer is telling him about. “No,” he whispers. “No, Cap’n, I don’t.”

“Didn’t think so.” Archer takes a final swig of beer before dropping the empty bottle on the beach with a sigh. A few moments pass; the only sound either from the planet or the basketball game. Finally, the captain says, “I miss him, too.”

Trip nods. “I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” The both of them are taken back by Archer’s harsh tone so he softens it. “Look, Trip. The entire ship is grieving. People back home are grieving. I had to call his parents and tell them that their son-” he cuts himself with a harsh intake of breath. “It’s hard to lose someone and it never gets easier, but we have to keep going forward. Some will recover faster than others. Those who maybe didn’t know him as well will certainly reach acceptance faster.”

“What’re you tryna say? That you didn’t know him well enough to mourn him?” It’s a low blow and Trip knows it.

Archer’s face contorts and for a moment anger flashes on it, but he does a very good job at burying it. “I have a ship to run, Trip.” His voice has lowered to just above a whisper. “I can’t afford to spend every day mourning in public.”

 _In public._ The words echo like an accusation. Captain Archer, Trip realizes, has been grieving with the rest of them, though he’s been doing so in the privacy of their own quarters. Is he _that_ fucking blind?

“I’m sorry,” is all Trip can utter. He won’t meet Archer’s gaze.

A noise that sounds somewhere in between a chuckle and a muffled sob comes from the captain’s throat. “It’s okay, Trip. I should be going a little easier on you. You were out of it for close to three weeks.”

Trip draws in a slow, shaking breath. “I jus’ really miss him,” he whispers brokenly. It’s a statement he never realized was true until he’s spoken it aloud. Having an imagine of Malcolm hanging around that only he can see is not the same as talking to the real man and is much more terrifying. “I miss him, Jon.”

And Archer slings an arm around Trip’s shoulder, pulling him in for a hug.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My shadow’s the only one that walks beside me.  
> My shallow heart’s the only thing that’s beating.  
> Sometimes I wish someone out there will find me,  
> ‘til then I walk alone.”  
> \- Boulevard of Broken Dreams, Green Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed the chapter count has been upped yet again, this time from 22 to 26. I'm not sure if even that will be enough either because this fic just keeps getting longer and longer than I planned. Ah well. More angst for y'all to enjoy.
> 
> All mistakes are my beta's fault- no I'm kidding you're doing amazing Rowan but pls continue ur own goddamn fic before I beat yo ass

A weighty sense of sadness starts to crush him not soon after his conversation with Archer. Trip taps out of the shore leave party earlier than expected, fearful he’ll end up breaking in front of the entire crew.

Still in his button up shirt and khaki pants, still with slightly damp hair, Trip blows off the scheduled appointment with Phlox and somehow ends up on F deck. More specifically, in front of the armoury doors. He hasn’t been inside since before the alien encounter. Why is he here now? Is he merely stalling for time getting back to his quarters because Malcolm is there?

Is it really Malcolm? Malcolm belongs in the armoury that Trip is standing before right now. Malcolm doesn’t belong in Trip’s quarters, stuck between planes of existence or whatever the hell is going on.

Trip spins on his heel and walks away without going inside. He can’t face it right now. Not when it’s missing the one man at the centre of it all.

Malcolm is sitting on the edge of the bunk when Trip enters his quarters. “Hey,” he greets the commander with a small smile. Trip studies him, trying to find anything about him that stands out. He finds nothing, and the staring is getting awkward, so he turns away and proceeds to change out of his shore leave shirt, having gotten it drenched in sweat thanks to the heat.

“How was shore leave?” Malcolm tries after a minute.

“Fine,” Trip mutters. He throws his shirt onto the shelf above his bunk and grabs a simple blue tee. He doesn’t want to do this right now.

Unfortunately, Malcolm doesn’t get the hint. “Are you feeling okay, Commander?”

Trip grits his teeth and doesn’t respond. He thinks he probably should.

He definitely should have, because now Malcolm’s standing right close to him. “Trip? Is something wrong?”

That’s it. He’s had enough. Trip whirls around to face Malcolm, jaw clenched. “Yer damn right somethin’s wrong!” he snaps. “In case ya haven’t noticed, my friend, who got shoved out into goddamn _space,_ is standin’ right in front o’ me right now talkin’ ta me, an’ I ain’t got a clue as ta why. Yer not a ghost, yer not the real Malcolm. What are you?”

Malcolm draws back, eyeing Trip warily like one would a wild animal. “I don’t know,” he says slowly; carefully. “Did something happen down on the planet?”

 _None of your business,_ Trip thinks. Paranoia prickles the back of his neck. “Yer not Malcolm.”

“Perhaps not,” Malcolm admits, though Trip suspects it’s for his benefit rather than Malcolm’s own. “But I’m… sentient. Look, Trip, just calm down. I don’t know what the bloody hell is going on and neither do you, but we’ll figure it out. Alright?”

Figure it out? How are they supposed to figure this out when he’s going completely insane? “You got shot out into space.” The aggression in his voice is flattened by the catch when he says “shot”. “You shouldn’t be here. Yer gone.”

Malcolm’s face darkens. “I think I bloody well know that, Commander,” he snaps, “I was there. You think I chose to be here? You think I chose to wake up on the next biobed over from you; to watch as you slept for three weeks straight? I’d be gone if I could, you know, but I can’t. I have no control. No bloody control and it doesn’t help when you give me this sort of apprehension at random.

“Ghost, apparition, clone – whatever you want to call me is fine! But I’m sentient and I’m aware and I remember things. I remember nearly freezing to death in a shuttlepod. I remember finding you on a planet with some alien princess. I remember rescuing Hoshi from the Xindi and I remember the nasty organization that was Terra Prime. Whatever’s gotten into you, Commander, you can keep to yourself. You’re not the only one unhappy with my presence here.”

The silence that settles is suffocating. They’re both breathing heavily, locked in a staring match with each other, but the aggression is quickly fading from their gazes. What must be said has been said.

“Apologies, Commander,” Malcolm mutters, snapping to attention. “That was out of line. Whatever reprimand you see fit is more than fair.”

“How’m I s’pposed to reprimand somethin’ no one else can see?” Trip retaliates flatly.

“Sir-”

“Jus’ drop it, Lieutenant.” Trip screws his eyes shut and lowers his head. “Jus’ drop it.”

He doesn’t mean to storm off. _Don’t you run away from me, young man,_ snaps his mother’s voice, a resonating memory from his childhood. What was the occasion? That’s right – he’d let a jar of beetles loose in his brother’s bed.

Now he doesn’t feel nearly as mischievous and free as he did then. Now he just feels plain miserable.

Trip misses Malcolm, all right. He misses their stubborn, annoyingly tidy British tactical officer he came to bond with over the course of their five-year mission. It’s like there’s a part of himself that’s been lost ever since he came to and learned what happened, and that lost part just isn’t satisfied by the appearance of some hallucinated version of his friend. Some… empty shell.

Trip stops in his tracks, something flickering like a spark in his mind. _Empty shell._ The words morph and tangle until it creates an image he feels holds the resemblance more to a memory than just a mere image, but he can’t recall anything like it ever before appearing in his life.

It’s faint, fuzzy, and fading fast. He reaches for it – it ripples when his fingertips brush by. _C’mon,_ he begs. He can’t lose it now. He’s never felt closer to answers.

Just a little more.

It’s a ship he’s seeing. _Enterprise_? No, not _Enterprise._ This configuration is different. Foreign, yet familiar at the same time.

And now he is _inside_ this mysterious known-but-unknown ship. The walls are pale and smooth and lined with pipes and the floor beneath his feet is cold. The entire room is cold. However, he is not shivering. He is not moving.

He is not even breathing.

He _can’t_ breathe.

“Commander.”

Trip is sent flying back into the real world with such force it’s all he can do to not tumble backwards. Someone is holding his arm in a firm grip meant to steady. Countless intimate encounters have led him to become familiar with this particular hand.

“T’Pol,” Trip groans out. He squints against the light which has become suddenly blinding. “H-how long?”

T’Pol raises her signature eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

The world stops spinning and Trip finds he can stand without worrying about falling over. “How long was I out?” he clarifies.

“I had been standing at your side for approximately four seconds before you acknowledged my presence,” responds the Vulcan in an even tone. “I know not how long you had been standing in the corridor for. If I may ask, Commander, what are you doing on board? I was under the impression you’d gone down for shore leave.”

Trip runs a hand through his hair and briefly closes his eyes. “I just… had ta come up earlier, is all.”

Predictively, T’Pol shows an immediate flicker of interest across her stoic features. “Has something troubling occurred?”

“Troublin’? What makes you think it was troublin’?”

T’Pol continues staring at him expectantly.

“Uh, yeah.” Trip clears his throat. “It was nothin’.”

“I highly doubt an incident described as ‘nothing’ could produce such a result as to have you back on the ship so soon.”

A sudden wave of anger washes over him. Trip feels his fists clench unconsciously, his teeth grinding. “It _was_ nothin’,” he snaps. “An’ even if it were somethin’, what gives you the right ta be all up in my case anyway? In fact, what gives _any_ of y’all the right to pry into my personal business? Come back with a warrant,” he adds sarcastically, “and I’ll _maybe_ consider it.”

The anger releases him, but not fully, so he still finds room to be pissed at how tranquil the science officer looks after being yelled at. Just as he opens his mouth to continue, she, fortunately, beats him to it.

“It is not uncommon to experience a rapid onslaught of emotions following a loss as great as this, Commander, especially when the circumstances are so that survivor guilt is a great possibility.” T’Pol’s sharp gaze is paralyzing in a sense. “Vulcan I may be, but my experience serving aboard _Enterprise_ along with my subsequent research into human emotions is given me valuable insight. You have every right to feel angry, Trip. I believe the term you would use is ‘pissed’.”

Trip blinks, unsure if he’s hearing things. T’Pol didn’t just say ‘pissed’, did she?

She continues right ahead. “Allow yourself to feel these emotions. You can find an outlet for them, but you cannot give in to them. Doing so will only result in further harm to yourself.”

It takes a few moments for the words to sink in and then some. T’Pol waits patiently, never averting her gaze from Trip’s. Finally, the engineer manages to stutter out a meek, “uh, thanks.”

Pathetic, he knows, for the Vulcan has just as well spilled out advice she herself does not believe it, but it’s the only thing he can think of. The words leave a sense of calmness in their wake; a calmness Trip hasn’t felt in days. “Thank you,” he tries again.

“You are most welcome, Commander Tucker,” T’Pol says. Something sparks behind her eyes, the Vulcan equivalent to a smile. If translated to a human smile, well, the normally emotionless science officer would be beaming. “If you don’t mind my saying, you are looking rather lost. It would do you good to return to your quarters before people come ‘prying’.”

Trip’s grin wavers. His quarters. Where “Malcolm” awaits him.

The empty shell.

But somehow, it doesn’t feel quite so empty anymore. He feels his shoulders relax and his breathing get easier. “I will,” Trip says quietly. “Thank you, T’Pol. Really. Have a good afternoon.”

“Once again, you are most welcome.” Then, with a brief nod, T’Pol turns and continues on her way down the corridor. Trip goes in the opposite direction. Neither of them looks back.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...I've never been the best at letting go." - Stay, Alessia Cara, Zedd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest - I'm quite proud of this chapter. I hope y'all like it, too!

Trip and Malcolm don’t bring up the argument again. Some tail ends of tension remain, resulting in strained conversations and eye contact avoidance. Occasionally, paranoia slithers into Trip’s mind but he fights it away and buries himself in his work. At one point he brings up the strange “memory” of the foreign ship. Malcolm goes a shade paler but says nothing.

Yet another smaller mystery surrounding the even greater one.

Back on (mostly) full time duty, Trip sure as hell makes the most of it. He works late despite the doctor’s recommendations and foregoes most of his exercise routines. Running back and forth all day gives him a decent workout. It distracts him from anything else anyway, including the paranoia. Including Malcolm, sometimes, at least when he’s not talking.

Malcolm isn’t even _here_ right now. For whatever reason he decided to stay behind this morning. The slight off-handed explanation of “I just don’t feel like it” was uncharacteristic of the Lieutenant, making Trip worry but not enough to pry. Besides, maybe being apart from his strange hallucination-ghost-spirit is a good thing.

“Try ‘er now!” Trip calls down to Drake and slides off the side of the engine carefully. The landing sends some pricks up his feet which he ignores, used to them by now.

Drake gives him a thumbs up from the controls and slowly begins to push the dials upwards, the engine giving off an ever-increasing purring sound.

“Looking good?” the Commander yells over the noise. One of the other ensigns hollers back a “yes, sir!” The strange shaking appears to be fixed. _Enterprise_ ’s engine is working as smoothly as ever thanks to a little TLC from Commander Tucker, Trip thinks to himself, grinning. “Alright, you can shut ‘er down now.”

“Aye, sir.”

Trip heads over to the intercom and presses the button. “All good down here, Cap’n.”

“ _Never been a smoother ride, Trip,”_ Archer responds. _“Did you find out what was wrong?”_

“Some of the couplin’s came undone, sir. They just needed a little tightenin’, no big deal.”

_“Good. Glad to have you back.”_

Trip smiles. “Glad ta be back.”

Once the communication is terminated, Trip sighs and takes a long look around the engineering deck he has come to love. His crew, working hard and diligently without fail, and when they do fail, it’s honest mistakes that he tries not to be too harsh about. The engine – _his_ engine _–_ now working just as perfectly as the crew aboard the ship.

Not seconds later the intercom beeps again. Trip answers it immediately. “Engineering, Commander Tucker.”

“ _Commander.”_ It’s Ensign Meng’s voice this time. “ _Am I bothering you?”_

“Not really,” Trip admits. _Yes,_ he thinks. Ensign Meng is Malcolm’s replacement, and, as good a tactical officer as she is, Trip can’t help but feel a sort of anger towards her. Completely unprompted, he knows.

_“Oh. Good. I was wondering if you could get someone down here to collect some phase pistols. They’re a pair of older ones and the setting change is not working properly. We haven’t had any incidents yet, but I’d rather not send someone on an away mission and have them kill when they mean to stun.”_

Trip looks around engineering. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“ _Soon as possible if you can. I’m short-staffed today.”_

“Soon as possible,” Trip echoes. “Tucker out.”

Ensign Porter walks by, heading for the door. Trip stops him. “Are ya busy?”

“I know I’m not on break,” the ensign says nervously. “Why? What do you need, sir?”

“Do you have time ta run down to the armoury and gather a few phase pistols? Apparently, they’re malfunctioning.”

Porter glances nervous at the door then back up at Trip. “I was just about to call my sister, sir. I haven’t heard from her in weeks, you see, and she said she could talk at eleven today. Um, but I can postpone if you need me to.”

Trip sighs. “No, don’t worry ‘bout it. Go call yer sister.” _While you still can._ “It’s fine.”

Ensign Porter breaks into a smile. “Thank you, sir.”

So, Trip walks to the armoury himself. He half expects Malcolm to greet him when he opens the door. He expects Malcolm to glance up from wherever he is – fiddling with torpedoes or practicing in the shooting range – but of course there’s no one.

Trip frowns.

There’s no one. Not a soul in the armoury.

“Ah, Commander!”

Trip whirls towards the voice and comes face to face with a smiling Ensign Tanner. He holds a small crate in his hand. “I didn’t expect you to come personally.”

“No one else was available,” explains Trip. “Uh, where’s the rest of yer staff?”

Tanner shrugs. “Other parts of the ship, probably.”

Trip gives him a quizzical look.

“Without any real action going on,” the ensign elaborates, “us down in the armoury have little to do other than polish phase pistols and preform the usual examinations on the equipment. When that’s done, well, there’s nothing else to do. Although, Ensign Meng was called up to the bridge just now, so maybe something’s going on up there. I don’t know.”

There’s something going on? Why was Trip not informed?

“Anyway. Here’s the phase pistols, sir.” Tanner gestures for Trip to outstretch his arms before passing over the crate. “I have a feeling it’s to do with the internal circuitry, but I’m no engineer.”

“You wanna learn?” Trip teases.

Tanner laughs. “Thank you, but I’m perfectly happy as an armoury officer.”

On the way back to engineering Trip can’t help but speculate on what could have called Meng to the bridge but not him. An attack maybe? No, he would definitely have heard about an attack. Malcolm’s good ol’ tactical alert would make sure of that. He debates calling the bridge just to see what’s going on but then he’d risk sounding desperate. Do they think he’s not ready? Though still far from what he was before the coma, Trip’s regained significant fat and muscle mass and his amnesia is almost completely gone.

He pushes the thought out of his mind and, having reached engineering, sets the phase pistols down on his desk.

He’s still working on them by noon. Rostov brings him a bit of lunch, which he’s immensely grateful for because whatever is wrong with the phase pistols, it does not want to be fixed. Malcolm joins him sometime after eight – “it took forever to get down here, trying to hitch rides with the rest of the crew in turbolifts and doorways” – but Trip’s still silent and lost in thought. Finally, he manages to reconnect the appropriate wires, and the phase pistols are fixed. Nine hours of almost straight work and he’s barely even tired.

“They still need to be tested,” he informs Ensign Sinclair, who offered to take the pistols back to the armoury. The ensign nods and disappears into the corridors, leaving Trip and Malcolm in the engine room, alone as it’s on the cusp between night and day shift.

It’s then that Malcolm finally reveals what’s been bugging him. In a sense.

“Commander, I was wondering if you could do something for me.”

The Lieutenant’s voice doesn’t so much as echo around the open engine room – it gives Trip an uneasy feeling, even though he’s been hearing it for weeks now. “What d’ya need?” he asks, pulling off his oil-stained leather gloves. “Yer back itchy?”

But the expression on Malcolm’s face is solemn and serious. “It would require you breaking into my quarters.”

Trip tilts his head. “Break in?” he repeats. “Why not jus’ give me yer code?”

“I’m a security officer for a reason, sir.”

“Right.” Now with his hands gloveless and clean, Trip runs one through his greasy and sweat-soaked hair. Not even the tiniest bit of fatigue has hit him yet. “Well, yer not gonna find a better person ta hack into someone’s quarters than me. Why exactly are we doin’ this?”

Malcolm shuffles his feet, pursing his lips. “It’s nothing too urgent. Respectfully, Commander, you look like hell, and you’ve spent almost nine hours working.”

Well, now Trip’s too curious to just let it go like that. “I’m not tired,” he states. “An’ yer makin’ me wonder what’s got you actin’ so secretive all of a sudden.”

Malcolm stays silent.

“More than usual, I mean,” Trip tacks on, hoping for some sort of reaction, but there’s none. Not even the ghost of a smile.

Huh. _Ghost_ of a smile.

Trip follows Malcolm through the corridors silently. A single ensign gets on the elevator at the same time they exit on B deck. Someone from the armoury. Malcolm averts his eyes from the ensign noticeably and quickens his pace to rush past him.

When they reach Malcolm’s quarters, Trip kneels down and pulls out what Hoshi dubbed his “hacker kit” and looks to Malcolm one last time. “You sure yer not gonna give me the code?”

Malcolm shakes his head. Trip sighs and gets to work.

He’s only been inside Malcolm’s room a few times. Sometimes to rant and cry on the shoulder of a friend, other times to share a drink in celebration of a successful away mission. There was even that time – it makes him choke up to think about now – when he came to check up on the Lieutenant after their plan with the Suliban. Injuries were an inevitable part of success, but he still hadn’t been prepared to see his friend lying in a curled position on the floor, too pained to even move onto his bed. Face a colourful assortment of bruises, teeth stained with blood, but still smiling.

Trip’s eyes flicker away from the floor that brought forth such a memory and takes a cautious step inside, as if entering a tomb. Malcolm strolls past him without any problem and heads straight for the computer. Trip takes the time to pick up a small photo frame that fell at some point. The image is of Malcolm, five or ten years younger, with his arm around a much taller woman. The resemblance is uncanny – no doubt this is Malcolm’s sister.

“Mads send me that maybe six months ago,” Malcolm says. “It was taken at some ceremony of our father’s. As you can see-” a lopsided grin appears on his lips “-I was quite a short lad.”

“As if you aren’t now?” Trip raises an eyebrow and places the photograph on the desk before moving to sit in front of the computer. “Alright, then, what’re we doin’?”

Malcolm’s grin vanishes and the sincere expression returns, causing a bad feeling to stir in Trip’s gut. “There’s a couple of encryption codes to access my files,” he explains, completely avoiding the question. “They’re pretty basic.”

A jumble of letters and words pop up on the login screen and Trip huffs a sigh. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Basic” in Malcolm terms, Trip discovers, means “extremely difficult” in Standard. Malcolm snickering over his shoulder doesn’t help but they get in eventually, and the first thing the screen opens to is Malcolm’s messages.

“Perfect,” the Lieutenant mumbles. “Okay, so you’re going to want to go to my drafts. Don’t you dare read any.”

“I’m completely blind,” Trip promises. He can’t help but sneak a glance at the odd message; fortunately, it’s either a boring Starfleet announcement or encrypted. They get to Malcolm’s drafts.

“That one.” Malcolm points at the second one down, addressed to a name Trip knows all too well.

_Madeline Reed._

Written to completion, signed, everything. Much to his surprise, Malcolm signs off with “love”, followed by a nickname he is quite positive Malcolm wouldn’t want him to know.

“Am I sending this?” Trip tears his eyes away from the screen before he can read anything more incriminating.

“Yes,” Malcolm confirms. “But if you read it, I’ll kill you.”

Trip smirks. “How? Yer not real.”

“Oh, I’ll find some way,” Malcolm scoffs before turning back to the screen. Just before Trip turns away, he sees a drowning sadness in the Lieutenant’s eyes.

Both of them hold their breaths as Trip clicks on send and the message is flying through space, invisible. “Won’t yer sister be a bit freaked out when she receives a message from you?”

“She’ll know it was scheduled,” says Malcolm. “If you wouldn’t mind, sir, perhaps we can leave my quarters before someone walks by and sees us or T’Pol’s sharp eyes catch your bio-sign in here.”

“Yer right.” Trip stands up, taking in one last look around the room. All of Malcolm’s stuff remains. They haven’t been to Earth to drop it off, then. The realization that eventually Malcolm’s room will be cleared out and vacant, knowing that the last trace of the man will disappear, spears a hole through Trip’s heart. He’s being torn in two directions at the same time – one part wants to stay for as long as possible; the other wants to bolt out of here.

“Trip?” Malcolm’s voice is what drags him back to the present.

“Let’s go,” the Commander says tightly. Once Malcolm has left the room, Trip switches off the light and quickly reapplies the locks on the door, leaving it exactly as they found it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your whereabouts unknown,  
> please, now you can come home.”  
> \- Whereabouts Unknown, Rise Against

“…the structure was unlike anything I’d ever heard before,” Hoshi explains eagerly, her forgotten cup of coffee growing cold in her hands. “Most languages follow one of few base structures, right?”

“I’ll take yer word for it,” says Trip, taking a bite of toast.

Hoshi smiles. “Well, they do, and I’ve managed to pick up on all of them. That’s what helps me learn languages so fast. Well, Ravis’s language had all these ridiculous rules I just couldn’t grasp! Even the _name_ was difficult. You can’t say it slow or the meaning changes.” She shakes her head and sighs. “I wish I had more time. It sounded beautiful when _he_ spoke it.”

“Naw, did Hoshi have a crush?” Trip teases.

Hoshi’s face turns red. She stutters to respond, “of course not! It was so long ago; I doubt he even remembers me.”

“You remember _him_.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” the linguist insists. She takes a sip of her cold coffee and pulls a face. “Anyway. I heard you’re back on full-time duty, Commander. How’s that been treating you?”

Trip passively waves a hand. “I’m still bein’ told ta ‘take it easy’, by Phlox but it’s not like we have any other option. ‘s been so quiet lately.”

“Wasn’t the engine acting up yesterday?”

“Nothin’ serious,” says Trip, “I fixed it in ten minutes.” A sudden thought comes to him and he frowns. “Hey, Ensign Meng got called t’ the bridge yesterday, didn’t she?”

Hoshi tilts her head, her smile wavering. “She did, yes.”

“Any reason why?”

“Ah, it was a ‘just in case’ thing.”

“Just in case?” Trip echoes. “In case of what?”

Hoshi’s eyes flicker downwards, a hand absentmindedly reaching up to twirl a strand of her dark hair on her finger. “We found a planet,” she explains eventually. “There were some strange readings we thought were weapons. Turns out the planet was just heavily irradiated.” For a brief moment she looks as if she wants to say more, but with a shake of her head she closes her mouth and smiles. “Just like your engine problem, it was nothing serious.”

Trip gives her the benefit of the doubt – paranoia must be getting to him again. Ordering himself to calm down because no one is plotting against him, he changes the subject.

“So, did ya go down on shore leave?”

“I did actually,” says Hoshi with a nod.

Trip’s brow furrows. “I didn’t see ya. What group were you in?”

“Fifth. I came down after you went back up, I believe.” She goes for another sip of cold coffee then rethinks at the last minute. “Played some basketball, went for a swim. Hey, do you mind if I get a refresher?” Hoshi gestures to her mug.

“I gotta get down to engineerin’,” says Trip, standing up as well. He offers a warm smile. “See ya later?”

The linguist grins and nods before heading for the drink dispenser.

Trip steps out of the mess hall with a sigh. He was sort of lying, telling Hoshi he had work. Really, he has an appointment with Phlox, because the man just won’t get off his back despite recent changes being nothing but for the better. Even his sleeping patterns have improved.

Checking to make sure the corridors are empty, Trip makes his way over to Malcolm, who is hunched against the far wall with his knees drawn to his chest. His eyes are closed, and he looks surprisingly peaceful. Is he sleeping?

“C’mon, wake up,” Trip mutters, nudging him with his foot.

Malcolm doesn’t stir; he doesn’t even make a noise to acknowledge the touch. Trip frowns and squats down beside him. “Malcolm?”

Slowly, Malcolm’s eyes drift open. The hollowness inside them makes Trip’s stomach drop and fear wash over him.

And then, not a split second later, focus returns to the man’s eyes and he meets Trip’s gaze, looking slightly startled. “Commander.”

“You were zonin’ out or somethin’,” Trip informs him flatly. “What were you doin’ just now?”

Malcolm frowns, bringing a hand to his head as if expecting to find something. “I’m… not sure.” He glances briefly at Trip before hauling himself to his feet. “You’re finished your breakfast, then. Where are we off to now?”

“Sickbay,” says Trip with a wry smile. “My all-time favourite location.”

An ensign exits the mass hall and waves to the commander as he walks by. Trip, doing his best not to look like he was just talking to himself, leans against the wall and waves back. Once the ensign is out of earshot he mutters, “how’re we s’posed ta keep this up?”

He doesn’t expect an answer; Malcolm doesn’t give him one.

They aren’t three feet down the hall when a nearby intercom chimes. _“Archer to Commander Tucker.”_

Trip frowns and presses accept. What’s the captain doing, calling him from his exact location? It couldn’t have waited until he was down in engineering? “Tucker here. What is it, sir?”

_“Report to my ready room, please. I have something I want to discuss with you.”_

There’s a coldness behind Archer’s words. Trip raises a lazy eyebrow at Malcolm, who in turn shrugs. “Ah, okay,” stutters Trip. “What’s the occasion, sir?”

A sigh comes from the other end. _“Soon as you can, Trip. Archer out.”_

The comm shuts off abruptly. Trip turns to Malcolm. “Is it just me or did he sound a bit fed up?”

“I don’t typically take it upon myself to speculate on the captain’s mood,” Malcolm replies, predictively as ever.

Well, at least now he has an excuse to blow off his appointment with Phlox.

Archer stands rather menacingly at the back of the ready room. The first thought that enters Trip’s mind is those cliché twentieth century crime drama shows, where the inspector would seat the suspect in a room lit by a single bare lightbulb and talk with his back to them. Maybe threaten them before whirling around and some dramatic music would play.

Of course, the ready room is much better lit than that, though Trip can’t shake the suspicion that he’s about to be interrogated.

“Uh, sir,” Trip says quietly, “you wanted ta see me?”

“Sit down, Trip.” Despite the weariness in the captain’s voice, the statement is nothing less than an order. Trip sits down.

Archer, bringing a hand to his forehead, turns around and sighs. He seems to be at a loss for words, unsure of where to start. A few seconds pass, then in a low voice, he asks, “I want you to tell me why.”

Trip blinks. Certainly not the conversation starter he was expecting. “’Why’ what?” Is there something he should know?

There’s a PADD sitting on the far side of the table. Trip noticed it when he walked in. Archer scoops it up and practically tosses it in the commander’s direction. “I want to know why I received an angry message from Mr. Reed asking why we were lying about his son’s death _._ ”

 _Aw, crap._ Trip forces himself to look down at the PADD but he doesn’t get farther than “ _you are a shameful captain”_ before he has to stop.

“Madeline Reed received this message last night. It’s been confirmed to be a manual send – that is to say, it was not scheduled.” Archer’s glare drills holes through Trip’s skull. “Care to explain yourself, Commander?”

Trip swallows dryly. “Sir, I didn’t want-”

“Don’t give me excuses,” Archer snaps. “Security footage shows you breaking into the Lieutenant’s quarters at 0900 hours last night. I want to know why you decided to write a letter and send it using Malcolm’s name and computer.”

Trip’s gaze snaps up, his face is inches from the captain’s. “I didn’t write the goddamn thing!” he exclaims. “It was already sittin’ on the computer in his drafts!”

“And you thought it would be a good idea to dig around his computer and _send_ it?”

“Malcolm _asked_ me to!” The words are out before he can stop them. Quickly, Trip clamps a hand over his mouth and dips his gaze, though not fast enough and he can already see the captain’s expression morph from anger to shock.

“What do you mean,” Archer begins slowly, “that Malcolm asked you to?”

Trip bites his bottom lip. Think fast, now. “I mean… he woulda wanted me to.”

Archer takes a careful step forward. Trip doesn’t raise his gaze, prepared for another lecture about how irresponsible and impulsive he is. So, it surprises him when he hears the captain’s soft tone saying, “I understand where you’re coming from, Trip.”

He looks up.

“But at the same time, it was completely stupid thing to do,” finishes Archer, stepping out of Trip’s personal space. “You’ve always been an “act first; questions later” kind of guy. I both admire and hate that about you.” He gives a sigh, his back to Trip now. “You’ll be writing an apology letter to Mr. and Mrs. Reed, explaining the situation. I want it done by tomorrow.”

Trip nods. “Tha’s more than fair. Yes, sir.”

The ready room door slides open suddenly. The Captain glances lazily over his shoulder while Trip, lost in thought, spins on his heel. Ensign Meng stands in the doorway, her dark hair in a bun though more of it is hanging in her face. “Sir-”

“Forget how to knock, Ensign?” Archer interrupts with a raised eyebrow.

Meng’s face flushes red. “Apologies, captain.” She snaps to attention, sharp gaze forward. “But we’ve found something we think you should see.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What the hell’s going on,  
> can someone tell me, please?”  
> \- Echo, Desmeon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, felt that song quote was fitting.

He follows Archer and Ensign Meng out onto the bridge like a sheep trailing a shepherd. The look the two of them shared was not lost to Trip – it was a look of understanding. A silent exchange. As much as he tries to convince himself otherwise, Trip feels like there’s something he isn’t being told.

“Report,” Archer barks, taking position just behind the crewman at the helm.

“Sensors picked it up a couple lightyears away,” Meng explains as she taps away at her console. “At first, I thought it was the trail of a comet, but a further examination showed the chemicals were made up of the same traces we found on that planet yesterday. I think we have a lead.”

“It is a warp trail, Captain,” says Commander T'Pol

Archer turns to look at his science officer with wide eyes. “You’re certain?”

“Absolutely.”

Trip, meanwhile, has struggled to keep up with the conversation since Meng started talking. Planet from yesterday? Lead? Hoshi told him that it was nothing. As much as Trip adores her, he’s never giving her the benefit of the doubt again.

“What lead?” he asks loudly. All eyes turn to him as if just realizing he’s there. Meng is the first to avert her gaze, breathing out a long, quavering sigh. Next is Archer who stares very intensely at the viewscreen.

T’Pol, it seems, has no such reserve to keep the truth from him. “We have been tracking a certain set of chemical compounds for some time now,” she starts. “Recently, sensors picked up the closest match on a nearby planet.”

“The planet from yesterday,” Trip realizes.

T’Pol nods. “Precisely. We confirmed the warp trail stopped for approximately fourteen point five hours at this planet before moving on. This is the trail we are currently following.”

“But whose warp trail is it?” Trip practically begs. “What’re you guys hidin’ from me?”

“We’re not hiding anything from you, Trip.” Archer lays a hand on his shoulder. “If it seemed like that, I’m sorry. We- I didn’t want to tell you something until we were completely sure.” There’s a suffocating pause surrounding the whole bridge before the captain speaks again. “The aliens who attacked us last month; it’s their warp trail.”

Trip’s mouth gapes open for a solid five seconds and it takes a while before he finally finds his voice. “Y-you found ‘em?”

“We think so,” Ensign Meng pipes up, a hint of uncertainty in her voice.

“But why? Cap’n, you said they were ten times more powerful than us.”

“Even the smallest piece of information can help us, Trip,” Archer says flatly. “We’re not looking for a fight. I want to know who they are and why they decided to attack and, if possible, what we can do to avoid such an altercation in the future.”

“As I have informed the captain before-” T’Pol sounds as exasperated as a Vulcan can be “-it is a dangerous situation we will be getting ourselves into.”

“It’s the only option we have, Commander.”

T’Pol’s eyebrows go up as the captain raises his voice. “We also have the option to continue our mission. A loss we did face but if we dwell on the past, we may never reach a desired future.”

Logical if not inspiring but Trip silently shares the captain’s frustration. He wants to get even with the bastards as well but not at the expense of the whole ship. “What kind of information we got on ‘em so far?” he mutters, taking up a position behind T’Pol’s chair. Words that are practically gibberish to him flash across her screen.

The Commander seems surprised at his curiosity but does not voice it. “I have done a thorough check of the Vulcan database; there is no match to their vessel type mentioned in any of the documents.”

“I know that already. What else?” he presses.

“They appear to be an advanced warp-capable species. A quick scan of their ship revealed that they can reach speeds as high as warp seven.” Trip whistles. “The only other thing we know for sure about them are that they are humanoid.”

“And they attack whoever they come across,” Meng adds.

T’Pol looks across the bridge at her. “There is no conclusive evidence to back up that theory, ensign.”

“It just seemed obvious,” the tactical officer mumbles, ducking her head.

“Was the planet we stopped at yesterday their…” Trip searches for the word, “base?”

“Unlikely,” T’Pol answers. “We found high radiation levels that matched a part of the compound that makes up the fuel this species uses. It seems they stopped to refuel.”

Trip chuckles. “An alien gas station.”

“What was that?”

“Nothin’.” He straightens up and moves his gaze to the captain. “I wanna be notified whenever we find somethin’ new, sir.”

Archer exhales slowly and closes his eyes. “Alright, Trip. But this is strictly confidential. None of the information we gain goes beyond the senior crew for the time being.”

“Yes, sir.”

The captain stares at him with an expression Trip can’t place. Pity? Fear? Anxiety? It’s gone before he can figure out what. “You’re dismissed, Commander. Don’t forget what we talked about earlier.”

 _The letter. Right._ “Yes, sir.” He nods to T’Pol and Meng and heads for the turbolift, stopping with his hand hovering over the buttons as he realizes he left someone waiting outside the ready room. “I’m gonna go this way,” he mutters, quickly changing direction. _Don’t ask why,_ he adds in his mind. Fortunately, Archer doesn’t.

Malcolm spins on his heel when he hears the door open. “Took you long enough,” the lieutenant says, immediately falling in step with Trip as they make their way down the corridor.

“S’rry,” Trip says. “Somethin’ came up in the middle of the cap’n’s lecture.”

“Lecture?”

“Y’know that message you had me send last night?”

Malcolm purses his lips. “You didn’t get in trouble, did you?”

“I did.” He doesn’t mean for the edge to appear in his voice, but it does so anyway.

“Oh.” Malcolm draws back a bit. “My apologies. I should have just given you the passcode to my quarters.”

Trip shakes his head. “Wasn’t that. Yer parents got all angry; askin’ why we lied about your death. Now I gotta write an apology letter an’ explain what really happened.”

The Lieutenant visibly flinches as they clamber into the turbolift, which, thankfully, is empty. “I’m sorry, Commander. I thought Mads would just assume it was scheduled.”

“’s not yer fault.” Trip attempts a smile – he suspects it looks more like a grimace. “They’re not thinkin’ straight an’ I don’t blame them. If we received a letter from Lizzie after she die-” that’s as far as he gets before the wind is taken out of his sails. Trip doubles over, one hand on his stomach and the other one on the wall. From somewhere far away a voice asks if he’s okay.

“Yeah,” he forces himself to say. The turbolift chimes, signaling it’s reached its destination. Trip, shaking off the last of the memories, straightens up and steps onto the deck. “’m fine.”

Malcolm doesn’t look convinced, though he doesn’t press and instead changes the subject. “What about the ‘something’ that came up while you and the captain were talking?”

“Ah.” The presence of an ensign forces Trip to stay quiet until they’re out of earshot. “This is where things get interestin’. Apparently, the whole bridge – minus yers truly – has been trackin’ the warp signature of those aliens we ran into.”

Malcolm’s eyes go wide.

“’m not quite sure what Cap’n’s goal is.” Trip rounds the final corner so that he’s standing in front of his quarters, tapping the code and stepping inside. Malcolm follows him in almost robotic movements. “Think he wants ta find out the reason for the attack. Always gotta be a reason, in his mind, I guess.”

“How do you know they won’t attack us- _you_ again?” Malcolm’s voice has gone uncharacteristically soft; he refuses to meet Trip’s eyes.

The Commander frowns and looks in Malcolm’s direction. “We’ll keep our distance,” he promises. “I’m sure we’ll withdraw the moment we _think_ they’ve spotted us.”

“That’s not good enough,” he pleads, lifting his head. “You can’t go looking for them. They’ll destroy you. Their weapons, Trip… we’re the equivalent of children playing with toy guns to them.”

The desperate rant catches him off-guard for split second. Trip grabs Malcolm’s shoulders and, grateful that they’re in the anonymous safety of his quarters, gives him a small shake. “Snap out of it, Lieutenant.”

The cloudiness in Malcolm’s grey eyes begins to subside until the officer is blinking blearily, his brow creasing and his lips pursed into a thin line. “Yes,” he whispers. “Yes, of course.”

Satisfied, yet still watching him carefully, Trip releases his grip. “You sure yer alright?”

“Yes,” says Malcolm again. He looks up at the commander, nods, and gives a small smile. “I started drifting again. For a moment I wasn’t here; I was in this other dark room that was filled with monitors.”

“Monitors?”

“About the only thing I could see,” he continues with a quiet scoff. “There were all these symbols I couldn’t read and… I-I don’t know, Trip, it’s already fading.”

Trip’s mind whirrs at warp five, trying to solve the puzzle that emerged from Malcolm’s recollection. “Yer sayin’ you _weren’t_ here.”

Malcolm shrugs.

“You were in some kinda dark room with monitors instead.”

Another shrug. “It’s probably nothing, Commander.”

“C’mon, Malcolm, it has ta be somethin’!” The desperation in his own voice makes him cringe. He flops onto his bunk and slumps forward. “Gotta be, don’t it? Gotta be.”

Hesitantly, Malcolm sits beside him, eyes forward. They don’t say anything – there is nothing to be said. Trip feels like he’s drowning in an ocean of lies and confusion and missing chunks of time.

The intercom by the door chirps, interrupting the silence. _“Phlox to Commander Tucker.”_

“Aw, shit,” Trip swears as he stands to answer the call. “Tucker here.”

_“I believe you are overdue for an appointment, Commander.”_

Trip runs a hand over his face and sighs. “Be right there, Phlox. Tucker out.” Once the communication ends, he turns to Malcolm with a weak smile. Malcolm makes a _go on_ gesture.

“I’ll be fine here,” the lieutenant promises. “Wandering the halls has become a bit tiresome anyway. If another ensign walks right into me, I think I might go insane.”

Trip nods, not trusting himself to speak, and slips out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get more interesting next chapter onwards. I look forward to sharing it with y'all!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “…we’re not stories; we’re not actors,  
> we’re awake and in control,  
> and this is not a dream.”  
> \- The Violence, Rise Against

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is that quote there for a reason? Perhaps...

Sometimes the mere sight of Shuttlepod One sends the ghost of a shiver down Trip’s spine, even after all these years. Toolkit in hand, he clambers into the back where the airlock door is positioned, flicking his sweat-stained blond hair from his eyes. Apparently, the locking mechanism is having some trouble.

“Those ensigns should consider ‘emselves lucky,” Trip mutters as he fiddles with the lock, “this thing’s completely fallin’ off. ‘f they’d caught this any later, they’d be suffocatin’ within minutes.”

“Shuttlepod one just does not like having people inside her,” Malcolm comments.

“Aw, c’mon, Malcolm,” Trip groans.

“What?” the lieutenant exclaims innocently, a sly smirk on his lips.

Trip waves the wrench at him like he’s scolding a small child and returns to his work.

After a few minutes of silence Malcolm speaks up again, his tone noticeably serious and solemn rather than playful. “We were bloody lucky back then.”

“We were,” Trip agrees quietly.

“Our adventures together always seemed to end with one or both of us injured.” Unable to hear Malcolm’s footsteps, Trip relies on the closeness of the man’s voice to figure out that he’s climbed into the shuttlepod as well. “It’s a wonder the Captain ever let us go on away missions together after the way this one turned out.”

Trip finishes installing the new locking mechanism on the airlock. “He once told me that we ‘became absolute idiots’ when we were together.”

“He did not.”

“He did,” Trip insists with a grin. “Think it was after the incident with that robotic Romulan ship.”

Malcolm laughs softly. “That was the most competent of our missions, in my opinion, but I suppose I see his point.”

“All done here.” Trip gestures at the hatch and the two of them step out of the shuttlepod. In the empty launch bay, they can carry on a conversation without having to be discreet, although Trip’s voice tends to echo. Malcolm’s, not at all.

“Have my parents replied to your letter?” Malcolm asks out of the blue.

Trip, in the middle of stretching his arms, freezes for a moment before shaking his head. “Nah, not yet. An’ it’s been – what, three days?”

“Two.”

“Eh, close enough.” Trip picks up his toolkit again. “I just wish they’d hurry it up. Writin’ it was painful, but I didn’t think waitin’ for a response would be just as awful.”

Malcolm flashes him an apologetic look. “They’re probably just processing the information. Or just being petty.”

“Petty?” Trip repeats in disbelief. “Yer parents – petty?”

“You’d be surprised.” There’s the subtle drag in his voice that Trip chooses not to pursue. They get to engineering and Trip sets a reminder on his PADD to tell Drake the shuttle was fixed – the man’s shift has already ended and Trip’s close to passing out himself.

It’s a relief when he finally gets back to his quarters. Falling face first onto the bed, Trip is asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

He’s cold; so very cold. The blanket wrapped around his shoulders isn’t doing a thing to help. He’s still shaking, though, which he’s conscious enough to realize is a good thing. At least his body hasn’t shut down on him.

Unlike Malcolm’s.

It’s a struggle to turn his neck but he does so anyway, and his eyes fall on the small bundle next to him that has long since stilled of any movement. Brown hair concealed by the cap tucked tightly onto his head; blue-grey eyes hide behind pale eyelids that will never open again.

Surprisingly, all Trip feels is… numbness. Literally and figuratively.

Out of the corner of his eye he spots the Enterprise making her way towards them. He feels the shudder of the grapplers as they latch on to the shuttle and haul them inside the launchbay. He hears the hatch open and voices yelling his name; he feels hands touching him all over, pulling him from the shuttle. Faces hover above him. They are familiar but he cannot put names to them.

And suddenly he’s lying on a bed in sickbay with Archer staring at him glumly and T’Pol… well, just staring at him, not even a crease in her smooth features.

“Malcolm?” he hears himself croak from somewhere far away.

The two officers glance at each other before returning their gaze to the man on the biobed. It’s Archer that says, “we couldn’t save him.”

And Trip feels nothing.

_You_ can _save him!_

He jerks awake at the voice – his own, but he does not realize that yet. Heart racing, panting hard, Trip wraps his arms around himself in an attempt to ward off the sudden shiver that’s overwhelmed him. “Save him, save him,” he repeats in wheezing, hurried breaths.

Something moves in the far corner of his room. “Pardon?”

Trip freezes at the voice. It’s familiar. And it shouldn’t _be_ here.

“Couldn’t save you,” he tells the voice, eyes darting around the dark room. “Couldn’t. Not yet. Not yet.”

 _You can_ _save him!_

“Trip, what’s going on?”

Close. The voice is close now.

Too close.

With a yelp, Trip throws himself off the bed and slaps the door control panel so hard it leaves a stinging sensation on his palm. Then he darts off down the hall, unaware of the minimal clothes he has on. His mind races in a frantic circle, thoughts tripping over each other and fighting to be at the front, but in the end they all loop back to a single thing.

_You can save him._

Finally, he reaches his destination. Trip punches in the door code at an unbelievable speed before rushing inside the quarters he’d only been in once or twice.

“Cap’n.” Like a child waking his mother after a nightmare, Trip grabs the bundle of Archer-shaped blankets and gives it a quick shake. “Cap’n, wake up.”

_You can save him!_

“Uh… Trip?” Archer, half asleep, is convinced he’s still dreaming when he sees the commander standing over him, blue eyes wide. He reaches for the bedside lamp and props himself up with his elbows. “Trip, wha’s goin’ on?”

“We gotta save ‘im.” His accent is thickened almost to the point of unrecognizability in terror. “We gotta save ‘im, cap’n.”

Archer squints against the light. “Save who?”

“ _Malcolm._ ” Trip’s almost exasperated as he says this.

Archer feels his heart skip a beat. “Trip, Malcolm is-”

“We can _save_ ‘im,” Trip insists. Unshed tears dance in his eyes.

Unsure of what to do, Archer slams the intercom above his bed. “Archer to Phlox.”

_“Phlox here, captain.”_

“I need you in my quarters right now.” Seeing Trip’s almost wild expression he adds, “quick as you can. Bring a sedative.”

_“On my way.”_

Trip’s eyes move to the intercom. Did Archer just call Phlox? On _him_? No, he doesn’t need Phlox. Malcolm needs Phlox. When they find him, that is.

“Listen to me,” the commander says, forcing himself to calm down. “We can save him. We gotta save him.”

Archer moves carefully so as not to startle his friend – the way one would for a wild animal. It kills him to treat Trip like this but it’s only way he can think of. “Commander, I need _you_ to listen to _me._ I know this is hard to accept but Malcolm is gone. We can’t save him.”

“You said that the last time,” Trip says ominously.

“Last time?” Archer frowns. However, he doesn’t get an answer, as it’s this moment that Phlox enters the captain’s quarters, wielding a hypospray in one hand and a med-kit in the other.

Trip takes one look at the hypospray and shakes his head. “You ain’t sedatin’ me,” he hisses, backing away. “You can’t. We gotta save him.”

“Commander, you are extremely overtired and disoriented,” Phlox says calmly. “I won’t need to sedate you if you come with me to sickbay.”

Overtired he may be, but disoriented? He’s the only one out of them thinking _clearly,_ for christ’s sake! Does no one else want to get their tactical officer back? “We don’t have time,” Trip insists. “Cap’n, I know where he is. We can save him.”

Removing his gaze from the doctor was very much a bad choice. Next thing he knows, there’s a small prick at the side of his neck and the room begins to sway around him. _Damn,_ he hisses. His brain refuses to transfer the word to his throat.

“I’m sorry, Trip.” Archer’s voice is muffled as if underwater.

He’s quickly losing the battle to remain conscious. Another voice above him talks but he cannot make out what it’s saying. His eyelids flutter shut on their own.

The last thing he remembers, which puzzles him greatly, is a dark room filled with monitors, and then the ground beneath him falls away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my absolute favourite chapter to write - the nightmare, Trip's reaction, everything! I hope you guys enjoyed it too :D


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know I’m not always strong.”  
> \- C U Again, Cartoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm starting college tomorrow. Woohoo! However, this means my updates will become even more irregular than they already are. I have great plans for this fic, so please stick around! 
> 
> Thank you for reading :D

Trip is floating in a nice white void. It’s quite peaceful, honestly.

Well, it would be peaceful if it weren’t for the weight on his chest, crushing his lungs and restricting his breathing. He squirms around, trying to get whatever it is _off_ his chest but to no avail. And is the light getting brighter? He screws his eyes shut but it still burns through his eyelids, and now something is pushing him upwards, out of the void…

“Commander,” whispers a soft voice.

He is no longer floating. Trip becomes aware of the presence of pillows beneath his head and a mattress cradling his body. Someone hovers near him, though he can’t see just who yet. His eyes won’t respond when he attempts to open them. He tries his voice instead.

“Wha…”

At least that works.

“Lie still, Mr. Tucker,” Phlox’s voice wafts over him. A hand gently pushes down on his shoulder as he tries to sit up. Blearily, he forces his eyes open and immediately regrets it - the lights of sickbay are painfully bright and serve to worsen the headache he didn’t even realize he had until now.

“I, uh, had to use a very high dose of sedative to knock you out.” The doctor sounds mildly regretful in this statement.

“Sedative?” Trip repeats. Is that why he’s abnormally drowsy, then? “Why’d ya use a sedative?”

Phlox pauses. “What’s the last thing you remember, Commander?”

Trip considers this. He’d fixed the airlock hatch of shuttlepod one and gone to engineering for a brief time, but he was so exhausted he could barely stand. “The las’ thing I remember is practically collapsin’ right inta bed an’ fallin’ asleep.” His vision now clear, he turns to frown at Phlox. “Did somethin’ happen?”

“Why don’t you allow yourself to wake up completely,” Phlox suggests hesitantly, “and then I’ll explain things to you, hm?”

Trip doesn’t seem to have much of a choice. He nods.

“Very good.” The doctor adjusts something on Trip’s monitor. “By the way, good morning. If you feel hungry just let me know and I can grab something from the mess hall.”

“’m fine, doc.”

Phlox offers one last smile before bustling off to attend to one of his creatures, cooing at it in gentle Denobulan. Trip, meanwhile, allows his gaze to drift, but he doesn’t get farther than the biobed to his right before he freezes.

Malcolm’s sitting there, legs hanging over the side.

“Well,” Trip says once he’s found his voice again, “this feels familiar.”

Malcolm grins. “Good morning, Commander. You made quite the scene last night.”

Trip groans and rolls his head back so that he’s staring at the ceiling. “Sounds like I did somethin’ questionable. A’right, then. What was it?”

“Actually, I can’t tell you much.”

Trip rolls his head to look at Malcolm again.

“I’m not unwilling,” the lieutenant adds quickly. “I really don’t know all the details. I got trapped out in the hall when you ran inside the captain’s quarters.”

“I ran into the _cap’n’s quarters_?” Trip’s eyes go wide. “What in the hell for?”

Malcolm shrugs. “A nightmare, it seems. Bad one if it had you reacting like that.”

Sickbay doors slide open and Captain Archer steps inside, the collar of his uniform undone and his hair sticking up all over the place. Phlox smiles at him from across the room. “Do come in, Captain!” he calls. “Mr. Tucker has just woken up and is quite curious about the events from last night.”

“Curious is an understatement,” Trip mutters. Malcolm smirks.

Trip catches the careful way Archer approaches him but does his best not to show his confusion. “Mornin’, Cap’n.”

“Morning, Trip.” Archer lays a hand on his shoulder and smiles. “Feeling any better?”

“I guess so.” Trip checks himself over. No bumps or bruises, no scars and lacerations. “My palm stings a bit,” he observes. Then he freezes.

_Not yet… too close… slam the door panel… into the hallway…_

Above him, Archer’s lips crease into a frown. “Trip? Are you alright?”

“Hm?” Trip looks up. “Ah, yeah. Fine. Sorry.” Looking back down at his slightly red hand he adds, “just a recollection.”

Archer cocks his head. “Coming back to you?”

“Sorta.” Trip sighs and drops his hand. “It’s like a dream. Hazy, not quite there.”

_Heart racing… running… save him, save him quickly…_

“I’m not surprised.” Phlox suddenly appears next to the captain, a PADD in his hand. “I ran some scans. You were experiencing a severe bout of anxiety, likely triggered by a dream or, uh, nightmare.” He slides the PADD into Trip’s lap for all the good it’ll do. Trip can’t even read the damn thing. “Similar to having a traumatic experience, your brain tried to block out the memories. To little success, I may add, once it figured out that this action was no longer necessary.”

“Must’ve been some nightmare,” Archer attempts to joke.

_Can’t save him. Can save him. Must save him._

The dark room. The monitors.

Trip chokes on his own spit and sputters something unintelligible to even himself before he gets his breath back. Three pairs of eyes stare down at him in concern.

“The room,” he says hoarsely. “Th-the dark room. Cap’n, I remember a dark room.”

“Yes, that would have been my quarters.”

But Trip shakes his head. “No, sir. Not unless yer quarters have monitors lined up on the walls.”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Malcolm’s head whirl around to face him, blue-grey eyes drilling into his soul.

Archer and Phlox share a look.

“’m not lyin’,” Trip adds, more for Malcolm’s benefit than anyone else’s. He sneaks in a quick glance in the Lieutenant’s direction before returning his focus to the captain and doctor. “Before I passed out there was this room. It was completely black with these strange monitors on the walls an’ symbols I couldn’t read on the screens.” A part of him hopes it’s just an image from an old mission he’s forgotten.

Much to his dismay, Captain Archer shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Trip, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Phlox?”

The doctor also shakes his head. “You were having a rather intense dream, Commander. As it was, you were confusing your dreams with reality.”

Trip feels his shoulders sag and he can’t bring himself to respond. The conversation moves on without him.

 _What even is reality anymore?_ he thinks darkly. _I have a ghost haunting me and apparently, I’m running into my Captain’s quarters in the dead of night screaming about how we can save said ghost from an end he’s already experienced._ Numbly, he lowers his head into his hands. _What the hell is wrong with me?_

Trip’s convinced that, after everything starting from last night leading up to now, Phlox is going to keep him trapped in sickbay for the entire day. Fortunately, with a little help from Archer, he’s allowed free roam on the condition that he checks back at the end of the day. _That’s nothing new,_ the commander thinks.

The variety of aromas in the mess hall make his stomach rumble – he didn’t realize he was so hungry. “I could eat this entire row,” he comments.

“Enjoy eating while you can, Commander.” Malcolm’s tone is strangely upbeat for the statement.

Trip takes a plate of eggs and bacon and manages to get his hands on the last two slices of toast before turning to find a good spot in the already crowded mess hall.

While none of the tables are completely empty, he seats himself across from Commander T’Pol, who seems lost in an ancient looking leather-bound book. She glances up when he approaches. “Commander Tucker.”

“T’Pol.” Trip greets her with a smile, setting his breakfast on his table. “What book’re you readin’?”

“An old Vulcan literary novel,” T’Pol replies. “If you are interested, perhaps I could translate for you.”

Trip chews on a piece of bacon. “Naw, it’s a’right.” His eyes move up to Malcolm standing above them awkwardly, having no place to sit, and Trip doesn’t want to risk pushing out a chair. _Sorry_ he mouths.

No sooner than five seconds later, Trip’s PADD chirps. _Incoming message,_ it reads. _Madeline Reed._

He stops mid-chew. Noticing this, Malcolm leans over his shoulder and asks, “what is it?” Then his eyes land on the notification and he, too, goes silent.

“Something the matter?” T’Pol asks. She’s brought her gaze up to study the commander, eyebrow arched.

“Just a message.” Trip forces a smile and swipes it away. “I won’t open it here.”

Malcolm lets out a sigh that could almost be described as one of relief and leans heavily on the table.

Trip forces his toast down piece by piece, hands itching to grab the PADD, curiosity – forgive the irony – eating at him. Eventually T’Pol excuses herself and Trip, unable to stomach any more of his breakfast, follows soon after. He tucks the PADD under his arm and marches quickly out of the mess hall.

He practically storms into his quarters, allowing mere seconds for Malcolm to slip through the door, and collapses into his desk chair, fingers already tapping rapidly at the keyboard. Malcolm watches with a careful eye, never questioning, never interrupting.

The message is typed, not audio. “Does everyone in yer family write out their messages by hand?” he asks with a snort.

“It’s the _proper_ way to do it,” Malcolm replies, the emphasis on the word _proper_ being an obvious imitation of someone. Trip chuckles and clicks to open the message.

_Commander Tucker,_

_My apologies for the late reply and more so for the confusion. It has been a lot to process. I do not believe mum or father intended to sound particularly aggressive in their previous correspondence, but tension has been high in our household. Our grandmother has also passed, you see, and this sudden influx of losses has left us rather broken and worn._

Trip blinks. The openness of Madeline Reed to a man no more than a stranger to her is a stark contrast in comparison to Malcolm’s reserved and quiet personality.

 _Deep down, I knew there was no possible way you could be lying. It’s unfathomable to imagine any of you doing such a cruel thing. Mal’s letters home spoke of nothing but positivity about every crewmember aboard_ Enterprise _, and mysterious my brother may have been but a liar he was not._

“You wrote about us?” Trip teases. Malcolm’s face turns a shade redder, but he disguises his embarrassment with an eyeroll.

_As I said, tensions are high back here. I should never have showed the letter to father in the first place. I just wasn’t thinking; I hope you’ll forgive me, Mr. Tucker. Father regrets his actions, too, though I would never be able to get him to admit it._

_Captain Archer has probably already given you a lecture on your actions, and I agree with him on some level, but you also did us a favour. I know not what prompted you to do this and I do not wish to. Mal’s letter, I’m not sure if you read it, was exactly the goodbye we needed. Nothing out of the ordinary; just an everyday correspondence, as strange as that may sound. So, thank you, Commander Tucker. Mal spoke very highly of you – it sounded like you were good friends. I am so sorry you suffered this loss. I wish you all the best._

_Maddie Reed._

Trip spins in his chair and opens his mouth to make another sarcastic remark, something along the lines of “I didn’t know you were the sappy type, Lieutenant”, but the expression on his friends’ face puts this to a halt.

Despair. Lost and deep; so deep Trip is sure he could drown in it just by _looking._ The computer screen reflects in tears that shimmer in Malcolm’s grey eyes, his lips moving silently as he reads the words. Once he gets to the end, the tears he fought to keep contained spill over his eyes and slowly drip down his cheeks, leaving salty trails in their wake.

Trip looks away as Malcolm brings a hand up to the screen, taking to clearing the clutter off his desk instead. It feels wrong to see Malcolm cry. Stoic, strong Malcolm, whose main concern was the safety of _Enterprise_ when a spike drove itself through his leg.

He sneaks a glance at Malcolm. Still crying. Still oblivious to the world around him. Trip gets up from his chair slowly so as not to disturb him, allowing the Lieutenant the closest thing to a final moment with his sister as possible.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “But I will hold out hope,  
> and I won’t let you choke,  
> on the noose around your neck.”  
> \- The Cave, Mumford & Sons

Trip slouches forward on the exercise bike, arms leaning on the bars, his legs aching with the strain of a workout. He runs a hand through sweaty hair and sighs. Exercise isn’t exactly in Phlox’s treatment recommendations anymore, though the doctor’s made it clear he shouldn’t slack off, but ever since his episode that resulted in him being forcibly sedated Trip’s found it the only outlet for the anxiety and uneasiness mounting within him.

Music still plays through his earphones – classic forties country songs he’s been in love with since he was a kid. Trip reaches one hand into his pocket to switch it off before pulling the earbuds out of his ears. On the next bike over, Travis Mayweather grins and comments, “out already, Commander?”

“Hey, that ain’t fair. I was here before you.” Trip waves a finger at him and hops off the bike. “’sides, I got bridge duty now. I coulda gone on much longer if I wanted to.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Travis challenges.

Trip laughs, gives the ensign a clap on the shoulder – “see ya around, Travis” – and sets in the direction of the gym doors. Malcolm follows a split second later than normal. In the days following Madeline Reed’s letter, the Lieutenant has seemed rather distant and distracted.

“Hey,” Trip greets him.

“Mm,” is all Malcolm responds with, his gaze ahead but elsewhere at the same time.

They walk down the corridors in silence. Trip, hyperaware of his sweat-stained appearance, attempts to act as normal as possible when an ensign walks by. Absentmindedly, he considers writing a report to include built-in showers in the gym.

“I feel gross,” he observes to no one in particular. As Malcolm takes to staring intently at the paintwork of the wall, Trip peels off his blue tank top and tosses it on his bed, making a mental reminder to finish the laundry pile that’s been building up significantly over the past few days.

The bathroom tiles feel cool under his feet. He almost gives in to the impulse to just lie on them until he stops sweating, maybe pushing himself wasn’t such a good idea after all. Trip switches the water on cold and steps inside, a chill running through him as the first drops hit his skin.

He’s reaching for the soap when the bathroom intercom chirps.

“Aw, c’mon,” Trip grumbles. Reluctantly switching off the water, he wraps the towel around his waist and presses accept. “The hell d’you want?”

There’s a beat of silence. _“Hey, Trip,”_ Archer says slowly. _“Is something the matter?”_

Trip runs a hand down his face. “Interrupted my dang shower…”

_“Sorry?”_

“Ah, nothin’, cap’n.” He huffs out a sigh. “What is it?”

A voice in the background announces something. Archer barks out an indistinct order before saying into the comm, _“you wanted to be informed if we found anything new on those aliens, right?”_

Trip’s heart skips a beat. “Uh, yeah. Are you sayin’ you found somethin’?”

 _“Quite possibly. But don’t get your hopes up too much,”_ the captain adds.

“I’ll be up as soon as I can.” His fingers hover over the terminate button. “Uh, Cap’n, actually, gimme a few minutes.”

_“Trip?”_

“I, ah, just came out of the shower.”

Is that muffled laughter he’s hearing? _“Roger that, Commander. See you in the command centre in a few.”_

Trip groans and leans against the wall, staring forlornly at the shower. Well, at least if people start complaining about the smell, he has an excusable reason for it.

“That was quick,” comments Malcolm from where he stands, facing the corner like a schoolboy in trouble.

“Ah, Cap’n called halfway through,” Trip explains. Not even bothering to dry his hair, he throws on the first shirt he sees. “They found somethin’.”

“Pertaining to those unknown aliens?”

 _No, pertaining to the secret ingredient in pecan pie._ “Yes, it’s the aliens. What else would it be?”

“Apologies, sir.”

Trip fiddles with the clasp of his belt buckle. “Nah, I’m sorry, Malcolm. I’ve had a short fuse lately.” With a metallic clink, the clasp fastens into place. “Dunno exactly why, though. Oh, you can turn around now.”

Malcolm gives a small, wry smile when their eyes lock. “Not to worry, Commander,” he says. “I’m feeling a little edgy myself as of late. Mind if I tag along this time?”

Trip scoffs in disbelief. “An’ here I was just about ta ask.”

They walk down the halls in silence. Partly because afternoon means more crewmen wandering, and partly because there’s nothing to say. Their conversations, when they have them, are awkward and halted, each man trying to deal with his own internal problems. What sort of problems could a ‘ghost’ have? Trip doesn’t know and won’t dare ask.

He probably wouldn’t receive an answer anyway.

“Afternoon,” he greets as he slips into the command centre.

“Good to see you, Trip,” says Archer with a smile. He and Hoshi are gathered in front of the control panels, a jumble of strange symbols running rapidly across the screen. Off to the side stands T’Pol, her arms behind her back, waiting patiently. The two commanders exchange nods.

Trip is surprised for a split second when his eyes land on Ensign Meng. The tactical officer offers a small smile, but he takes too long to reciprocate, and she averts her gaze. Trip’s heart sinks. A silent rivalry with _Enterprise_ ’s new tactical officer is not something he wanted.

“What’s all this about?” he asks the captain, looking away from Meng.

“Ah.” The captain smiles and taps a button on the control panel, and an image pops up on screen. “This. This is what we’ve discovered, Trip.”

It looks like a mere orange blob in the blackness of space at first. Trip opens his mouth to inquire what it is he’s supposed to be looking at, when the image enlarges itself and he feels his throat go dry. “Is that…”

“We think so,” Archer says with a nod.

“Thought it was space debris at first.” Trip jumps and whirls around at Ensign Meng’s voice. She crossed the room so quietly. “Turns out, it’s something more.”

“I took detailed scans,” T’Pol adds. “It is approximately one and a half metres in diameter, composed of the same alloys we detected on the alien vessel when they first approached us.”

“That’s too small to be a shuttlepod,” Trip wonders aloud. “It could be an escape pod.”

Archer smiles. “Exactly what we were thinking.”

“Did ya get any scans of the inside?”

Archer looks to T’Pol and T’Pol shakes her head. “Similar to the alien vessel, our scans could not penetrate the hull.” She glances up at one of the screens where a series of formulae appear. “I did, however, pick up on bio matter. Unknown composition at this time.”

Trip’s eyes go wide. “Like what we found on that time ship?”

“No. It does not seem to be a component to the vessel.”

“We’re going to be bringing it aboard,” announces Archer. “It’s small enough that we can bring it into our launch bay. From there, I want an engineering team to work on dismantling that thing. See if we can confirm it came from their ship and identify what this ‘bio matter’ is that T’Pol is picking up.”

“Permission to help with that,” Trip says immediately.

From the look Archer is giving him, he expected this exact question. “Permission granted, Trip.”

As Archer rambles on about the specifics, Trip turns to beam at Malcolm, only to find him frozen on his feet with a look of pure terror on his face.

He waits until they’re dismissed and alone in the hallway before he inquires.

“There’s something wrong, Trip,” the Lieutenant begins.

“Wrong?” Trip frowns. “The hell d’you mean ‘wrong’?”

Malcolm shifts his weight uncomfortably. “I can’t quite explain it, sir, but there’s something unsettling about that vessel.”

“So, yer sayin’ we should just leave it out there?” asks Trip in disbelief. “This is the biggest lead we’ve had in… ever.”

“Listen to me. This is dangerous. You have to tell the captain that.”

Trip scoffs. “Dangerous how? You worried there’ll be a bomb on board or somethin’? T’Pol’s already checked, Malcolm.”

Malcolm’s eyes remain desperate and pleading as he says, “that’s not what I’m worried about. You have to promise me, sir, no matter what you find, you can’t go looking.”

“What the hell’s _that_ s’pposed ta mean?”

As if he just let slip some big secret, Malcolm’s face drains of colour and he lowers his gaze, lips pursed.

“Answer me, Lieutenant.” Trip doesn’t stop the dark tone creeping into his voice. “That’s an order.” But Malcolm won’t even acknowledge him, won’t even look at him. Trip throws his hands up in exasperation. “Fine, then. Keep yer secrets if you really wanna. I gotta get down to the launch bay.”

Only now does Malcolm look up, but his expression is pained. Regretful, almost.

“Yer welcome ta join me,” Trip offers a little more softly.

“Perhaps not,” says Malcolm. “But I’ll see you around, Trip.”

Then Malcolm turns and walks down the corridor. Trip goes the opposite way, sneaking one last glance over his shoulder, but Malcolm has already vanished around the corner.

“Steady, now! We don’t want it fallin’ apart an’ landin’ on someone.”

“Sorry, sir,” Crewman Fletcher squeaks, tightening his grip on the panel.

Trip sighs, shakes his head, and returns to slicing off the locking mechanism. It proved too difficult to try and hack into. Even Hoshi had trouble figuring out the symbols and, in the end, could only identify three out of the two dozen there.

Even with the vessel inside their launch bay, scans could not penetrate the inside. The engineering team has resorted to drilling the whole thing apart.

“’s it comin’ along?” Ensign Drake asks.

“Almost,” Trip mutters in response. Finally, the hatch clips off its hinges and Trip jumps to his feet with an exclamation of “aha!” Then he goes to assist Fletcher in removing the hatch. Half of engineering gathers around to witness the big reveal, most of them not even meant to be there. _You’d assume we’re opening a time capsule or something,_ Trip thinks.

At the same time the hatch comes off an overwhelmingly foul smell wafts out from the vessel and a collective groan rolls through the entire launch bay. Trip all but drops the hatch onto the ground, arm moving up to cover his nose and mouth with his sleeve. Fletcher does the same, expression twisted.

They grab the flashlights from their belts and shine them into the vessel. Immediately, a sense of familiarity washes over Trip.

 _Smooth, pale walls._ A significant lack of pipes this time.

_Wandering. Exploring. Questioning._

_Scared. Still._

_Not breathing. Can’t breathe._

“Sir?” Fletcher chokes out, dragging Trip from his thoughts. The crewman’s face has turned deathly pale and the hand gripping the flashlight is shaking.

Trip follows Fletcher’s gaze and starts to ask, “what is it?” but the words die in his mouth. He almost drops the flashlight in shock.

Propped upright in a black cushioned chair sits a body, well preserved from the lack of atmosphere in space. And on the body hangs the torn and ruined but still unmistakable _Enterprise_ uniform.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If I fall tonight,  
> you can bring me back to life.”  
> \- Saving Light, Gareth Emery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter ahead. You have been warned.
> 
> Lately I'm getting less and less sure of myself and this fic. It was nice while it lasted but I feel like people are losing interest because I've been dragging it out so long. I know it's selfish but if so few people are enjoying it, I really don't see much point in continuing.  
> I'll update until where I've gotten to but I'm not sure I'll finish this fic. Sorry.

It takes a few seconds for Trip’s brain to kick into gear. “Fletcher, call Phlox down,” he orders, voice uncharacteristically small. “Now.”

“Aye, sir,” says the shaken crewman and eagerly he turns to race for the comm.

Trip takes a deep breath, desperately hoping his lunch will stay down, and forces himself to address the already dispersing crowd. “Everyone out,” he hollers. “Get the hell outta here, all of ya!” A little harsh? Maybe, but he can’t have half the crew ogling the human body in the alien vessel.

A couple of his own men linger behind, expressions uncertain. Trip signals two of them out – Drake and Peterson – to stay behind and secure the vessel while he shoos away the rest.

“Phlox is on his way, sir,” Fletcher reports. The man’s eyes are wide and he’s unsteady on his feet.

“You feelin’ okay?” Trip mutters, knowing full well what a stupid question it is.

“Fine, sir,” answers the crewman. “Is there anything I can help with?”

“Go get some rest, Fletcher. Yer on break for an hour.”

The flash of relief across Fletcher’s face is not missed. “Sir?”

“Recalibrate yerself and check back,” Trip clarifies. “I don’t wanna see you ‘til 1600 hours, got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

Doctor Phlox steps through the launch bay doors at the same time Fletcher makes his exit. Following the doctor is Captain Archer, looking equal parts worried and confused. Phlox must have informed him, then, because Fletcher is too nervous to even _look_ at the captain as they stumble past each other.

“I am under the impression you have a body for me to examine, Commander,” Phlox says all too brightly.

Trip waves half-heartedly at the vessel and flops down on a nearby crate, head in his hands. While Phlox practically skips to begin his work on the body, Archer kneels down in front of him. Trip cracks one lazy eye open and smiles humourlessly. “He’s one of ours, Cap’n. Or she.”

“Definitely male,” Phlox announces in a voice loud enough it could be heard from inside the nacelles.

A small smile flashes briefly across Archer’s face. “Thanks, Phlox. Very helpful.” He turns back to Trip and his expression turns concerned. “You’re looking a little pale, Trip. Everything okay?”

“Well, I yanked off the hatch of some alien pod and discovered the body of one of our crew, so I’m jus’ fine an’ dandy.”

They fall into silence. Trip watches Drake and Peterson take apart the panel leading to the propulsion system, their eyes on anywhere but Phlox and his “patient”.

“There’s somethin’ I need t tell ya, cap’n.” Trip says finally.

“Jon.”

“Jon.” Trip lowers his gaze and takes a deep breath. “That vessel. I’ve seen it before. The inside of it.”

Archer cocks his head.

“’bout a week an’ a half ago,” he elaborates. “There were pipes linin’ the walls, though, an’ it was much bigger. Like that thing is just a part of some bigger ship.” He gestures to the vessel in their launch bay. “It was like… well, I don’t wanna say it was a psychic vision. I know it sounds crazy, but I swear t’you, Jon, I was on that ship. Sort of, anyway. Dream-like. There but not _really_ there, y’know what I’m sayin’?”

Archer gives a short chuckle. “No, Trip. I have absolutely no idea what you’re saying.”

Trip deflates. Of course, the captain would just write him off like that. Probably planning to sign Trip up for therapy the moment they get back to earth.

“But you _are_ telling me,” Archer continues, “that you had this dream you were on that vessel.”

Trip tilts his head to the side. “It wasn’t a dream, sir. I was walkin’ through the halls at the time. T’Pol found me starin’ off inta the void, I’m sure she could verify.”

“I’ll be sure to ask her.”

“An’ I jus’ told ya, I wasn’t on _that-_ ” he gestures with his head “-specific thing. They looked similar, like they were part of the same ship.”

“Captain,” Phlox says before Archer can open his mouth. “My preliminary examination is finished. I’ve learned all I can from here; it’s time I bring the body to sickbay to conduct further tests.”

Archer gets to his feet. Trip follows, a little bit shaky but manages to keep himself upright. “Did ya find anythin’ you can tell us?” the commander asks.

Phlox shrugs. “Every scan indicates human. Male, between ages twenty-five and thirty. I did find something rather peculiar in the corpse’s time of death.” A wince is shared between captain and commander at the word ‘corpse’, but Phlox doesn’t notice. “The math is not working out. It’s got me greatly intrigued.”

 _I’m glad a dead member of our crew has you ‘intrigued’,_ Trip thinks darkly.

“Do we have an identity?” Archer asks.

“Indeed, we do,” replies Phlox. “DNA tests confirm it; an Ensign Tobias Rivers.”

Trip head snaps up, the rest of his body going rigid. How could he not have recognized the body sooner? The matted blond hair, the scar on his cheek. How could he have been so blind?

“Trip, you okay?” Archer asks gently. Trip can’t bring himself to speak, so he’s grateful when Peterson raises her voice.

“Toby- er, Ensign Rivers was one of ours, sir.”

Energetic, friendly, easy-going yet reliable. No one expected to see him again. Certainly not Trip. Certainly not in this way.

“We have to find out what’s going on here,” Captain Archer says in a low voice.

A pair of medical ensigns have begun loading the body onto a stretcher. Trip watches them forlornly, refusing to set his gaze on Rivers’ lax and leathery face. The last memory he has of the man is of him smiling and he doesn’t want to taint that.

“Take as much time as you need to preform any necessary scans,” Archer tells the doctor. “Trip, take that vessel apart if you have to. I want to know it’s composition, purpose, and if any part of it can lead us to the aliens.”

The sudden transition to work and orders is exactly what Trip needs. “Aye, sir.”

Archer throws a nod to Trip and leaves the launch bay, trailing just behind Phlox and the stretcher.

Trip turns back to his two ensigns patiently awaiting instructions. “You heard the Cap’n,” he says flatly. “Let’s get ta work.”

“We managed to expose the propulsion system, sir.” Peterson leads him round the back of the ship, pointing to the now exposed cables and circuit boards. “The fuel tanks are empty but there’s traces that they were once full. It isn’t meant to go far, by the looks of it.”

“There’s some kind of automatic alert system built in,” Drake adds. “Can’t read the language for the life of me but it looks like a distress beacon.”

Trip frowns up at the red light Drake pointed at. “Was it activated?”

“Like I said, sir. Automatic.”

Trip slaps a palm to his forehead. “Of course. I knew that.”

If Drake catches the commander’s self-deprecating comment, he does not mention it. “I also found some faint marks on the surface of the metal, like it scraped against something.”

“Maybe a launch tube,” Peterson theorizes. “Likely an escape pod, then.”

Trip feels he might as well be invisible.

He skips dinner. He isn’t sure he could hold anything down anyway, the way his stomach is twisting and turning. Ensign Peterson offers to be the one to clamber inside the alien escape pod, a peg on her nose and a flashlight in hand. There’s little more to glean from the pod, though, aside from confirmation that it did come from the mysterious alien vessel, something everyone already knew.

Trip’s relieved when the call from Phlox comes through the comm. _“Commander. You’ll be pleased to know I’ve finished my examination. I think you’ll find the results… most enlightening.”_

The way the doctor says “enlightening” sends a shiver down Trip’s spine. An urgency fills him, and he hurriedly leaves the launch bay. Not before snapping some quick orders at his ensigns to secure the pod and return to their quarters. After the shock of finding a body in there, he’s quite sure every single one of his crew could use some time to themselves.

He’s just stepping off the elevator on E deck when a familiar face rounds the corner. For a moment they stand there in silence, gazes locked on each other, until Trip speaks first. “Y’know, when ya walked off on me, I wasn’t sure you’d reappear again.”

Malcolm chuckles softly. “Still think I’m just an hallucination, then?”

“I don’t know _what_ you are,” Trip replies. “Anyway. I don’t really want ta get into this argument again. I need ta talk ta you about the alien escape pod we found.”

“Oh.” The small smile that was appearing on Malcom’s face disappears. After a few moments, he collects himself and says, “what is there to talk about?”

“What is there t- Malcolm _,_ we found a damn _body_ in there.”

A visible shudder runs through the officer’s body, his shoulders tense. In a voice barely audible he asks, “you found what?”

“A body,” Trip repeats, a little softer. “Ensign Rivers. One of the Ensigns who was killed when the wall blew.” He pauses. “You told me earlier, before we brought the pod on board, that no matter what we find, we can’t investigate. You gotta tell me, Malcolm. How the hell did you know about this?”

“I didn’t.” Malcolm lifts his head quickly. “I didn’t know there’d be a… oh, lord.” Running a hand through his hair, Malcolm sags like a limp ragdoll against the wall.

Trip bites his lip, wanting to say something but not knowing exactly what, because Malcolm looks inches from some sort of breakdown, and he knows how much he seems to enjoy blaming himself for everything. “It wasn’t yer fault,” Trip decides on eventually.

Much to his surprise, Malcolm responds, “I know.” Grey eyes rise to meet Trip’s, tears clouding them. “You were on your way to sickbay, yes?”

Trip musters a half grin. “How’d you know?”

“Why else would you be on E deck?” Malcolm pushes himself off the wall with a long breath out. “Well, we don’t want to keep Phlox waiting.”

“’We’?”

Malcolm gives him a long look. “Respectfully, sir, I’m coming too.”

Trip’s throat dries. He’s surprised at how quickly Malcolm’s managed to recollect himself; there’s not a single tear left in his eyes. “Alright,” he says quietly.

Archer and T’Pol are already in sickbay by the time Trip slides through the doors. Under the force of habit, he almost climbs onto one of the empty biobeds to wait for examination. It’s somewhat strange to be in sickbay for a reason not pertaining to him.

“Commander!” Phlox exclaims. “Right on time, yes, right on time. I’ve completed my examinations and have the results waiting for you all.”

Trip wanders to stand beside the captain and almost calls after Malcolm when he takes up residence in a corner. However, remembering who he’s with, Trip shuts his mouth quickly.

Phlox picks up his PADD and turns to face the waiting trio. “As you are aware, my preliminary tests yielded some rather confusing and, may I say, fascinating results.”

 _You may not,_ Trip thinks. He finds nothing fascinating about the dead body of one of his men.

Fortunately – or unfortunately, depending on how one looks at it – Phlox does not have the ability to read minds. “To borrow a Vulcan phrase, I suppose the most logical place would start to be in chronological order. The first thing I discovered in my primary scans was a strange drug in the ensign’s bloodstream.”

“What kind of drug?” Trip inquires.

“It was quite a complicated little thing. Quite sneaky, too. I nearly missed it.” He holds up a vial of purple-red liquid. “I can’t identify most of its composition, but it has properties that are used to increase nerve activity and neurological response.”

“Some kind of stimulant,” Archer says uncertainly.

“Correct, Captain.” Phlox nods. “It is nothing of the like I’ve ever seen before in my life. I didn’t have a clue what the purpose could have been, to give a stimulant to an already dead human.” He pauses – Trip swears it’s for dramatic effect. “That is, until I found something much more interesting.”

He leads them over to the side of the biobed and gently lifts the sheet. Trip disguises his unexpected gasp of shock as a cough, strategically looking away from Rivers’ lax face. His focus goes instead to the bruises littering the man’s arms that Phlox is pointing to.

“This bruising,” the doctor says, “is just not possible.”

Both Archer and Trip look up at the exact same time. “What do you mean ‘not possible’?” the captain asks.

“A dead body does not bruise,” Phlox explains. His expression is intensely focused, almost solemn. “I found the same sort of marks on the Ensign’s legs. Do you see this thin line right here, encasing the wrist?”

Trip nods but dares not move his gaze. He’ll just take the doctor’s word for it.

“It’s a ligature mark, caused by the ensign straining against some form of restraint to his wrists and ankles. He was tied down.”

The floor sways beneath Trip’s feet – his stomach flips and churns. His grip on the biobed tightens in a desperate attempt to anchor himself to reality. He can’t pass out. Nevermind the embarrassment it would cause, Phlox would probably keep him in overnight.

Finally, he manages to pull himself back into the world, discovering with great relief that little time has passed, if any at all.

“He was _tied down_?” Archer is virtually demanding. “What in god’s name for?”

“I don’t know, captain,” Phlox replies calmly.

“Pardon if I’m treading on your territory, doctor,” T’Pol speaks up, “but if I recall correctly, if the blood is not circulating, a bruise cannot form.”

“Precisely, Commander.”

The sick feeling is back. Trip allows his vision to fall out of focus and his hearing to take the lead instead.

“Therefore, Ensign Rivers would have to have been alive to acquire these bruises you call ‘ligature marks’,” finishes the Vulcan commander.

Sickbay goes disturbingly quiet.

Archer draws in a shaky breath. “You’re not saying…”

“It can’t have happened any other way,” Phlox insists. “Unless the ensign received these bruises while under your command-”

“Never!”

“Then I’m afraid there is no other explanation. Despite being exposed to the harsh vacuum of space for a fatal amount of time, Ensign Rivers was alive after the fact.”

The shock Trip feels is… strangely underwhelming. Did he expect this? Did he already _know_ this somehow?

“You’re sayin’ he survived bein’ out in space?” he says in a quiet, monotone voice.

Phlox purses his lips. “No, he did not survive. At some point, his heart did indeed stop, and he suffered a fatal lack of oxygen. However, as I said before, dead bodies do not bruise. Especially not ones that have been in space.”

Trip nods. And he continues nodding, the world slowly returning to focus. Phlox is looking on with concern; Archer looks utterly lost; T’Pol looks about as worried as a Vulcan can be, which is to say, no change. And finally, off in the corner stands Malcolm, leaning with his back against the wall and his hands tucked under his armpits.

“If one were alive after,” Trip wonders out loud, “could the same be said for the others?”

Four pairs of eyes snap up to look at him simultaneously.

“Trip-”

“You must not allow yourself to assume-”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that-”

But it’s Malcolm’s ever so subtle headshake that does it for Trip. It is not a headshake that says _you’re wrong_ ; rather, it is a reminder of the words spoken before they brought the escape pod on board.

_Promise me you won’t go looking._

_I’m sorry, Malcolm,_ Trip thinks, _but I gotta break that promise._

“Cap’n,” Trip turns to Archer, “you told me you couldn’t find the bodies when you looked, right?”

Archer hesitates. “That’s, uh, right.”

“Now we got one handed t’us on a silver platter, carrying jus’ the information we wanted. Stimulants in his blood and all sorts o’ clues suggestin’ he was alive. Phlox, back me up here,” he adds desperately.

The doctor’s eyes shift nervously between captain and commander. “Ehm, while I cannot say for certain that what happened to the other two corresponds with what happened to our unfortunate Ensign here, I can say that the facts are… irrefutable.”

Trip’s heart races in his chest. Years ago, he would’ve laughed at the notion of someone coming back from the dead. “Cap’n,” he says softly. “Malcolm might still be alive.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Just because I’m hurting,  
> doesn’t mean I’m hurt.”  
> \- Lost!, Coldplay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks goes out to all my dedicated readers and commentors - and even those who decided to give this story a mere passing glance. It means the world to me to have such support ;-; <3
> 
> Thanks to Rowan also for putting up with my pestering to beta read this.

Silence. He isn’t used to it.

Trip sighs and shovels another spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth, but it may as well be sawdust.

It’s not actually silent, of course. The mess hall bustles with activity as the night shift crew grab a quick meal before disappearing, and the alpha shift crew mingle and talk with each other before departing to their stations. It’s little more than a drone on Trip’s ears but that’s not what he means.

What he means is the silence between him and Malcolm.

He’s not used to it.

No matter what the circumstance, they were always talking. Sometimes it would be to crack a joke and sometimes it would be to argue incessantly but it was never silent between the two of them.

Trip drops his spoon into the bowl with a clatter. With his head in his hands, he wonders why Malcolm was so insistent they not follow through on their discoveries; why Malcolm tensed up at the mere mention of the aliens. Fearful, even. It just isn’t the Malcolm he knows.

And now Malcolm refuses to even say a word. _Hasn’t_ said a word since Trip brought up the idea that the other two missing members of their crew could still be alive.

Trip leans back in his chair and moves to aimlessly out the window, where the stars are passing them by at warp two. Despite T’Pol’s expected protests of how dangerous it would be, Archer has gone through with Trip’s suggestion and set them on course to follow the alien warp trail.

It isn’t easy. The fact that they’re in uncharted space means nothing compared to the problems they’ve been facing. The trail fades in and out, sometimes there’s issues with timing, and everything on _Enterprise_ seems to think now is a perfect time to break down. They’re due for a refurbish but no one wants to go home without seeing things through.

“No one” being Trip and Archer.

Trip’s eyes trail around the mess hall. The rest of the crew still have very little clue as to what’s going on, though some have made pretty accurate guesses. Others, like Drake and Peterson, drew their own silent conclusions once they saw the evidence in front of them. And with only eighty-three people on board, it isn’t hard for news to spread. Especially something of this magnitude.

_I hear we’re following the warp trail of the aliens._

_I hear the captain plans to try and establish friendly relations with them._

_I hear he wants to blow them to kingdom come._

Trip wouldn’t mind opening absolute hell on the bastards.

A clatter brings him to his senses. Off on the far side of the mess hall a couple of ensigns have collided, coffee spilling down their uniforms. They both laugh and someone hands them a cloth, and another says something Trip can’t hear but everyone else can, for bouts of laughter come from somewhere in the forming crowd

Trip abandons his cold oatmeal on the table and leaves.

Not surprisingly, he finds himself inside launch bay two, eyeing the bright orange escape pod as if it would come to life and bite him.

Which, if it did, wouldn’t shock him one bit.

“Jus’ what else are you hidin’?” he whispers to it as he begins a careful pace around it. Reduced to little more than clumps of orange plating, the internal workings are exposed, revealing a fascinatingly complicated structure for such a small pod. Hoshi spent all day down here yesterday just translating the controls. Neat little labels have been added to each button and switch. Trip clambers inside, trying his best not to think about the body that sat there three days ago.

 _Atmosphere recycler_ reads one label, plus a toggle for three different settings. According to Hoshi, they have no translation to Standard.

Pilot control. Emergency flares. Long and short ranged sensors. Nothing out of the ordinary – just your every-day escape pod.

“Oh, sir,” comes a voice from behind him, “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

Trip turns and makes eye contact with Lieutenant Hess who’s holding a box full of tools.

“Captain Archer wanted me to check and make note of the engine components,” she explains. “Please tell him I’m sorry – I got caught up by an Ensign asking me to sign something.” She hesitates before speaking again. “Should I just leave this with you, or…?”

Trip blinks. After a few seconds, the meaning finally sinks in. “Oh. I’m not here ta work on the pod, Lieutenant.”

Hess breaths a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness. Pardon my saying, sir, but I’ve been dying to get a look at this.” With a few careful steps forward, she raises her gaze to gawp at the alien structure of the vessel.

“It’s an odd one,” Trip comments, stepping out of the cockpit. “No doubt it came from our wonderful alien friends, though. Same hull build-up and colour.” _Same on the inside,_ he adds in his mind.

“It’s true what they say about Ensign Rivers, then?” Hess sets the box down and purses her lips. “They found him in here?”

Trip takes a deep breath. “Yeah.”

Hess shakes her head, red hair falling into her eyes. “I don’t believe it. I don’t _get_ it. Why would they put his body in there and just toss it out for us to find?”

Trip forces himself to keep his mouth shut. Whatever explanation the captain has given the rest of the crew about how Rivers ended up in the escape pod, it’s vastly different from what they know to be true. “I have no clue,” he says softly.

“Oh, well.” Hess wipes her eyes and gives a short chuckle. “Maybe when we catch up to them, they’ll tell us.” Straightening her shoulders, she turns her full attention to the vessel. “Now, then. Engine. Where will I find that?”

“Bottom left,” Trip supplies. “I’ll leave you to it, Hess.”

“Thanks, Commander. Have a good day.”

Trip does not have a good day.

First, the warp engine starts its peculiar little shake again. It takes hours to tone down and no one can pinpoint what went wrong.

Turbolift B breaks down in between floors, trapping two medical crewmen inside. As a result, two of Trip’s team are sent down to sickbay as substitutes to help feed Phlox’s creatures. Only one returns. The other, Ensign Sinclair, is stuck receiving treatment for bites he got from Phlox’s Vincerien mice.

One of the consoles at T’Pol’s station frizzes out. Trip makes the repairs himself, eager to see what kind of updates the bridge has. Unfortunately, none.

He skips lunch, which does nothing to help his mood. One of the newer crewmen mixes up components and almost overloads half of the warp core. A door in the freshly repaired part of the ship jams. While trying to fix the connection, Trip locks himself inside the Jeffries tubes.

And Malcolm still refuses to talk.

“You can’t give me the silent treatment forever,” Trip snaps as he all but falls onto his bunk. What little energy remaining is sapped out of him the moment he makes contact with soft, warm sheets.

With half his face squished into the pillow, Trip watches the man standing motionless in the corner of his room. Malcolm is still as a statue, only moving to blink and breathe.

Wait. Trip squints his eyes. Is Malcolm even breathing? From this angle, he doesn’t seem to be breathing.

“Would you stop staring at me like that?” says Malcolm, speaking for the first time in days.

Trip bolts upright so fast he almost knocks his head against the upper shelf. “Like what?”

“Like… suspiciously,” Malcolm says unclearly.

Trip scoffs and rolls his eyes. “I’m not lookin’ at you ‘suspiciously’, Malcolm. Why now, of all times, d’ya decide ta talk?”

Malcolm raises an eyebrow. “You were staring at me strangely. It made me uncomfortable.”

“Yer silence made me uncomfortable,” Trip retaliates. “You’ve been avoidin’ me ever since Phlox told us about Rivers, refusing to talk or even come out of my quarters. What have you been doin’ in here all day, anyway?” He pauses. “You haven’t been doing _yourself,_ have you?”

“God, no!” Malcolm looks so predictively disgusted and Trip smirks like the Cheshire cat. “I would never- Commander, that’s extremely inappropriate.”

Trip only shrugs.

“I haven’t been doing much of anything,” Malcolm explains, shooting him a glare. “Standing around. Thinking. I can’t touch anything so it’s not like I can mess up your quarters.”

“Right, right.” Trip peels off his grease-stained jumpsuit and sighs. “What about yer silence? Why’ve you been refusin’ ta talk ta me?”

Malcolm looks at his feet, shuffling his weight a bit.

“Spit it out, Lieutenant,” Trip adds. “What’s got you so worked up?”

Malcolm lifts his gaze again and stares directly into Trip’s soul. “You put us all in danger, Commander.”

Trip’s mouth gapes open at the unexpected answer, at the weight in Malcolm’s tone, as if the words were difficult to say. In danger? How the hell did he put them in danger? “You gotta tell me more than that,” he says, forcing himself to keep calm.

“I told you how the alien escape pod made me uneasy. I told you that bringing it on board was dangerous.” Malcolm’s face twists into an unreadable expression. “I told you not to look any further. You should have trusted me, Trip.”

The nickname spears him through the chest like a lance.

“Alive or not,” Malcolm continues, “I can’t be rescued. You don’t know the first thing about these aliens – who’s to say they won’t attack on sight, with bigger, much more powerful weapons than last time?”

“You seem ta know a lot about’ em.” Trip gets to his feet. “Why don’t you tell us?”

“I don’t know a thing about them either!”

Trip draws back. Even Malcolm looks surprised.

“They could kill you,” the Lieutenant continues, a pleading tone unlike anything Trip’s ever heard slithering into his voice. “They _will_ kill you. You have to tell the Captain, Trip. Turn the ship around.”

A shiver goes up Trip’s spine. His hands are numb; so is his tongue. He can’t move or say anything. The sound of his own heartbeat in his ears almost drowns out Malcolm’s words entirely. For a long dragged out minute they stand in silence.

“I can’t do that,” Trip eventually hears himself say. “Cap’n’s already accepted the risks. So have I.”

Malcolm’s expression reads pure and utter betrayal and it breaks Trip’s heart, but no matter what he says – what anyone says – he’s made up his mind.

He’ll get his friend back or he’ll die trying.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “…I left my footprints in the sky.”  
> \- Keep on Moving, Michelle Delamor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter murdered me with its bare hands.
> 
> It took days until I was completely satisfied with it. Every time I edited it there was always SOMETHING off- pacing, characterization, whatever. Finally, I decided to just write whatever the hell came to mind and lo and behold, it turned out decent.

Trip is awoken by the combination of his hand smacking against the side wall and the gruesome imagery his mind decided to cook up for his latest nightmare. Still bleary-eyed and half asleep, Trip holds his left arm close to his body and focuses on taking long, deep breaths, trying to calm himself down.

Despite the sheer number of times he has them they aren’t getting any easier to manage. In fact, they seem to only stick around longer, sending shivers up his spine and raising goosebumps on his skin.

Trip screws his eyes shut against in an attempt to block out the memory but it only plasters itself to the inside of his eyelids – Malcolm sitting on the edge of his bed, eyes gouged out and chest caved in, his heart ripped clean from it, leaving only a vast hole in its place.

“Trip?” There’s some shuffling off to the right as Malcolm gets to his feet. “You alright?”

“Fine,” Trip responds. His eyes drift over to the clock. 0650. “I’m not still dreamin’, am I?”

Through the darkness, Malcolm frowns. “No.”

“That’s good.” Trip slides carefully off his bed and goes to turn on the light, squinting against the brightness. The Malcolm that stands before him isn’t covered in scars, doesn’t have his heart ripped out, looks entirely normal. “That’s good,” Trip whispers again.

Then he digs about his closet to find a fresh uniform.

Travis catches up with him at breakfast and the two go to the bridge together – Travis because he’s on the morning shift and Trip because… well, he can’t really explain it, actually. There’s a feeling spinning deep in his gut that _something_ is going to happen. _Something_ is going to change.

It scares him that he doesn’t know what or why.

Archer cocks an eyebrow when he sees Trip. “Good morning, Commander. Are you here for any particular reason?”

“Nothin’,” says Trip wearily. “I just wanted ta see if anything’s developed.”

Archer and T’Pol share a glance, and the captain shakes his head. “Not that I can think of.”

“Oh. Well, if ya do-”

“You’ll be the first to know,” promises Archer with a smile.

His help is desperately needed down in engineering, anyway, since the engine’s strange rattling sound has started up again. Almack’s on his hands and knees halfway underneath the thing when Trip walks in. The top part of his jumpsuit is unzipped, telltale signs of grease and oil smudge the black shirt underneath. He’s been there quite some time.

“Havin’ fun, ensign?” Trip greets.

The poor guy almost smacks his head against the engine as he leaps to his feet. “Sir. I, uh…” He glances down at his feet, shuffles awkwardly, before raising his gaze again. “Engine trouble again, sir. She’s making some strange noises.”

“Rattling?”

“Yeah.”

Trip pulls himself up onto the engine console with a sigh, Almack following close behind, hastily doing up his jumpsuit. “The entire ship’s been falling apart since the captain set us on this course.” Realizing how critical he must sound, Almack quickly amends himself with, “not that I’m blaming him, of course.”

Trip smirks and clasps a hand on the ensign’s shoulder. “Not ta worry, I won’t tell ‘im.”

Almack smiles nervously. “I do have a possible reason for all the trouble we’ve had, sir.”

“Oh? I’d love ta hear it.” Trip leans back against the railings and stares at the ensign expectantly. Deep down, he already knows what the answer is. He’s had his own suspicions ever since the warp engine first started making its rattling noise.

Almack looks down at his feet for a brief second before glancing back up again and saying, “the warp trail, sir. I’ve run some scans.” Out of thin air the ensign procures a PADD and shows it to the commander. “Traces of this element here have been sneaking its way into our systems – some of the compounds don’t agree with our systems. Not enough to do permanent damage but enough that we’re running around almost non-stop to keep up with the disruption it’s causing.”

Trip skims the PADD and nods. “Seems sound. Looks like we’ll need ta reinforce some of the internal filters.”

“Some of the scrap metal could be welded into additional shielding, sir.”

“Get Cadrin and Fletcher ta help you.” Trip hands the PADD back. “I’ll see if I can adjust the filters more finely in the meantime.”

“Aye, sir.”

As Almack scales the catwalk ladder to find the allocated crewmembers, Trip hops off the engine platform and heads for one of the Jefferies tubes. A tight squeeze, maybe, especially for someone his height. Nevertheless, he’s gotten used to it over there years. Found it somewhat comforting too, at times, like he was back home with his positively enormous extended family, all bunched together in the living room as his ma makes a smoothie for the kids.

“Commander?”

Trip blinks back to reality and realizes he’s stopped dead on his hands and knees. Malcolm waits impatiently behind him.

“Might we get a move on, sir?”

“Right,” Trip mutters, clearing his throat.

There’s a little more room in the engineering filter junction but not quite enough for two fully grown men. Malcolm shoves himself awkwardly off to the side as Trip gets to work on adjusting the filter sensitivity.

He’s maybe a minute in, working on removing a stubborn bolt that’s been there god knows how long, when the near silence of the junction is interrupted by a soft groan. Trip recognizes that groan. Giving a frown, he turns around hesitantly, wiping the grease from his hands. “You okay there, Malcolm?”

At some point or another Malcolm hunched in on himself, shoulders tense, arms hugging his body like there was a shiver in the room. Still standing up, though on shaking legs that look like they could collapse at any moment.

Trip takes a step forward and touches the man softly on the arm. “Malcolm?”

It’s almost as if Trip’s jerked him out of a nightmare. Malcolm’s grey eyes are startlingly bright against his pale and sweaty skin, his hands clench tighter around his sleeves. “Yes, ehm…” He screws his eyes shut. “Sorry, sir, I…”

That’s as far as he gets before Malcolm’s legs give way and he crashes to the floor, arms flying to his ears. A whimper escapes his lips.

“Malcolm!” Trip reacts immediately, falling to his friend’s side. “Malcolm, can you hear me?” Predictively, the Lieutenant doesn’t answer. Another one of those episodes, maybe? Trip grabs Malcolm’s shoulders, hoping to elicit any sort of reaction, but there’s none.

Trip rocks back and forth on his knees, glancing again and again out at main engineering, hoping no one decides to check how he’s doing.

A cold hand grabs his wrist so suddenly he almost cries out. “Malcolm?” he hisses.

Malcolm’s eyes are wide, blank; confused. Focused on somewhere else, somewhere far off. The hand gripping Trip’s wrist is pale white and shaking along with the rest of his body. Somewhere deep inside, the anxiety within Trip begins to mount. Malcolm’s never had a reaction this severe before. Just what the hell is he seeing?

Rage becomes mixed in with the anxiety, rage directed at the bastards doing this to his friend, but he doesn’t have time to think about it, because Malcolm’s talking to him now.

“Trip…”

Trip has to lean in to hear it; Malcolm’s voice is little more than a whisper.

“Trip, you’re…” a shudder runs through the Lieutenant’s body. “Not safe… the post… outpost- no, get- stop- I’m not-” An ominous warning turns to broken fragments of incomprehensible sentences. Trip’s hand is beginning to tingle, Malcolm’s holding it so tight. There’s only one thing he can think of doing.

“I’m here, Malcolm,” Trip says in the steadiest tone he can manage. “I’m here. I got ya.”

And Malcolm begins to calm down.

The shivering gets less intense, and his breathing slows to an almost normal rate. Clarity returns to frantic grey eyes; Trip’s hand is released from Malcolm’s death grip.

“I apologize, Commander.” Malcolm straightens up, still rather unsteady on his feet and Trip instinctively goes to grab his shoulder when he wobbles.

“What do you have to apologize for, Lieutenant?”

Malcolm clears his throat; he seems to be doing his best to mask the shaking. “I was overwhelmed again,” he says in a clipped, professional tone. “It seemed… much closer this time, if that makes sense.”

Trip stares at his friend in disbelief. “You can’t apologize for things not in yer control, Malcolm. I don’t blame ya.”

“Still, I should not have allowed myself to be overtaken.”

“Aw, hell, I’m not doin’ this with ya.” Trip waves his hand dismissively and crouches back down in front of the mess of relays in front of him. “Not right now. I got work I should be doin’.”

Malcolm’s gaze drops to his feet. “Quite right, sir.”

But the curiosity eating away at Trip is too much to bear. Before he knows it, the words come tumbling out of his mouth as he yanks off one of the filter purifiers: “what was it this time?”

A smile tugs at Malcolm’s lips. “What happened to ‘not right now’?”

“Hey, I’m allowed ta be curious, ain’t I?” Trip smirks. “You were mumblin’ somethin’ ‘bout a… a post, I think. An outpost. What’d it look like?”

Malcolm’s expression becomes solemn, lost in thought. “I honestly can’t quite remember, sir. Trip.” He doesn’t even need to be corrected this time. “You may have heard my insane mutterings, but I certainly didn’t.”

“You sounded more frantic than insane.”

“I did? Hm.”

“You also said-” Trip interrupts himself briefly to squeeze his upper torso into the enclosed space of the filter “-that it wasn’t safe. Whatever ‘it’ is. Then ya started goin’ inta these… hell, they were almost pleas.”

He can’t see Malcolm cringe, but he can definitely hear the utter disgust in his voice. “I was _pleading_?”

“It’s nothin’ ta be ashamed of,” Trip assures him. “Just a bit more to the right… done!” With a satisfied grunt, he pulls himself out of the filter and sets to work on reattaching the access panel. “Now, what about this outpost of yers?”

“I really don’t remember.” An edge has crept into Malcolm’s voice. “Some kind of… a-alien research station, I think. Bloody hell, it could just be their equivalent to a fast food restaurant for all I know.”

“Hey, Malcolm, chill.” Trip places a gentle hand on Malcolm’s upper arm as he teeters on the edge of spiraling again. “It’s something. You said it was much closer this time, yeah?”

Hesitantly, Malcolm nods.

“That’s gotta mean we’re gettin’ close, too.” Seeing Malcolm about to protest he adds, “an’ don’t you dare try ta convince me ta turn this ship around, Lieutenant. How many times do I have ta tell ya that we’re gettin’ you back no matter what?”

Something in between a soft chuckle or a muffled sob escapes from Malcolm’s lips. “You always were stubborn.”

“Well, don’t pin that all on me!” Trip exclaims. “I probably couldn’t change the cap’n’s mind if I _did_ wanna turn us around.”

Malcolm rolls his eyes but he’s smiling. Sort of.

Trip gathers up his toolkit and ducks out of the Jefferies tubes before checking on Almack’s progress.

“We have some schematics for the advanced filter system, sir,” the ensign explains, holding up a PADD. “We won’t need to replace the system entirely, fortunately. Crewman Cadrin came up with a couple of upgrades.”

Attention turns to the female crewman who is looking rather pleased with herself. “It was nothing, sir,” she insists. “They’re essentially more advanced additions to what we use on the shuttlepods. They should stop the element from disrupting our systems.”

“’Should’?” Trip echoes, eyebrows raised.

Cadrin’s face flushes red. “Nothing’s perfect, sir.”

Trip clasps her on the shoulder and grins. “Yer alright, Crewman. Keep goin’ on those schematics and I’ll show ‘em to the cap’n by this evening.”

“Aye, sir,” is the unanimous reply.

The comm by his desk chimes just as he’s putting his tools back. “Engineering, Commander Tucker.”

_“Trip.”_

Just the sound of the captain’s voice sends a shiver of anticipation down Trip’s spine. “Have you found somethin’, sir?” he’s blurting out before he can stop himself.

_“As a matter a fact, we did,”_ Archer replies. _“We’re still a little over three hundred thousand kilometres away, but it’s definitely linked to our mysterious alien friends. Same composition.”_

“A ship?”

_“No, it doesn’t appear to be moving, nor have any sort of propulsion system. T’Pol thinks it’s some kind of space station.”_

Trip’s mouth has gone dry, suddenly his legs are little more than jelly, struggling to uphold his weight. He practically falls into his desk chair, eyes wide in shock. A quick glance at Malcolm confirms that he’s having a similar reaction: gripping the edge of the desk, lips pursed into a thin white line.

Trip swallows dryly and forces himself to speak. “Like an… outpost, cap’n?”

_“You don’t sound too great. Is everything alright?”_

Alright? Trip could laugh at the irony. He hasn’t been alright in weeks, let alone now. “I’m headin’ up, cap’n.”

_“Wh-”_

But Trip’s slammed his thumb down on the terminate button and barrels out of engineering as fast as his unsteady feet will take him.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Let’s go,  
> don’t wait,  
> this night’s almost over.”  
> \- First Date, blink-182

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, to think at one point this fic was only 19 chapters long. Now, here we are, chapter nineteen, and only starting to get into the good parts.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy! This is another chapter that refused to cooperate so it's a little rough - don't mind that.

Trip damn near breaks the record for least time elapsed in a dash between engineering and the bridge. At the way every crewmember on the bridge turns to look at him, you’d think he snapped the door off its hinges. “You said you found an outpost, cap’n?”

“I said we _may_ have found a _space station,_ Trip.” A look of confusion and concern crosses the captain’s face. “I don’t know where you got outpost from. Are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

Trip makes his way over to his usual spot by tactical without saying a word. There, on the viewscreen, is an enlarged image of what he presumes to be the station. It’s not the same orange colour as the ships – rather, it’s painted dark grey, almost blending in with the void of space. Still, there’s no denying the similarities in design. One large “bulb” in the middle with smaller bulbs branching off, as if it were growing.

“Trip.”

“Hm?”

He’s met with the captain’s ever-increasing look of alarm when he turns around. Beside him stands Malcolm, mirroring almost the exact same expression but with a hint of horror thrown in.

“You are looking rather unwell, Commander.” It’s T’Pol’s voice this time. Trip whirls around to face her, much too fast because the world around him spins and he has to grab the tactical console to keep from falling over.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, knowing full well that he’s fooling no one.

Least of all Malcolm.

“Somehow, I don’t believe that,” says Archer.

“I _am,_ ” Trip snaps. “Jus’ a bit… ah, wh-what do we know ‘bout it?”

Archer looks like he wants to order Trip down to sickbay but ultimately decides against it. “Nothing yet, other than what I told you over the comm.”

“It is built using near the exact same materials as the alien ship we encountered a little over two months ago,” T’Pol offers. “While of a slightly different configuration, this is where the warp trail ends. Along with many others.”

“They have more than one ship,” Trip breathes.

T’Pol nods. “Precisely.”

“What the hell for? Kidnapping other species?”

“I do not take it upon myself to speculate such things,” the science officer replies in an even tone.

_Fair,_ thinks Trip, but he can’t remember when T’Pol picked up the human habit of snarky replies.

“What about planets?” Travis asks suddenly, integrating himself into the conversation. “Their planet has to be nearby, right?”

Archer turns expectantly to T’Pol, who taps away at her station some more. It gives a little chime in response.

“The closest inhabited planet is more than two hundred and fifty light years away, Captain. It is named Caere. The Vulcans have never made direct contact with the species,” she supplies, anticipating Archer’s next question, “as they have not yet achieved warp drive.”

“Then how’d they get out here?” Trip asks.

“Very likely it is not their station, Commander,” T’Pol reminds him. “It bears no similarity to the early prototypes of the species’ vessels logged in the Vulcan database.”

“So, it can’t be them. Who else?”

“We’re not going to get very far by debating this,” Archer interjects. He massages two fingers over his eyelids in exasperation. “The fact is that the warp trail ends at this station. We’ll work on identifying the ‘who’ later. Can you read any bio-signs from this distance, T’Pol?”

Attention is once again turned on the Vulcan science officer as she taps a command into her controls. A few seconds later she gives a near undetectable nod of her head, an eyebrow quirking in obvious curiosity. “Affirmative. Two humans. We are too far to determine exact location yet.”

“What about non-human ones?”

“I cannot find any.”

The answer shocks the bridge into silence.

“Yer sayin’,” Trip says slowly, “that there’s not one single alien aboard that thing?”

T’Pol looks at him completely straight-faced. “Yes.”

“If I may, sir-” it’s Ensign Meng who speaks up next “-there’s no way that’s possible. They’re either on that station or they’re lying in wait somewhere near, ready for us.”

Archer rubs a hand along his forehead, eyes screwed shut, lips sewn tightly together.

“They could be masking their bio-signs,” T’Pol hypothesises, “but how, I do not know.”

“They do seem more technologically advanced than us,” Meng points out.

“Than humans, perhaps, but all the evidence says they are equal, if not inferior, to Vulcans.”

“Well, maybe your evidence is wrong.”

“Both of you, stop,” Archer commands, and Trip selfishly thinks he’s rather glad _he’s_ not the one being told to shut up this time. “We’ve found the station. Found our people. We need to figure out what we’re going to do next. Travis, drop to impulse and inch us forward.”

The helmsman who’s been sitting quietly throughout everything snaps upright as he hears his name. “Yes, sir.”

“Ensign Meng, polarize the hull plating and stay on long-range scanners. Notify me if there’s the slightest bit of movement, hostile or otherwise.”

“Yes, sir.” The Ensign’s voice is clipped and formal, an echo of her duty under Lieutenant Reed.

“T’Pol and Trip, you’re with me in my ready room.”

The door has barely slid shut behind them when Trip makes vocal the question he’s been dying to asks since they first found the escape pod: “we’re rescuin’ ‘em, right, Cap’n?”

Archer only exhales slowly in response.

“It would pose a great risk to this crew to mount a rescue mission,” T’Pol states, though slightly wearily, like she knows exactly what the ultimate decision will be. “While I could not find any non-human bio-signs, Ensign Meng was justified in her suspicions. They may be using some sort of cloak. Not to mention the possibility of nearby ships. As they excel speeds beyond warp seven, they will most likely see us on their sensors well before we see them.”

“Comfortin’,” Trip remarks dryly.

“I am merely stating facts, Commander.”

“I didn’t call you two in here to debate on the safety protocols or other wise,” Captain Archer interrupts. “While I admit that there are some risks, those are our people in there. Alive.”

“Gettin’ tortured,” Trip adds under his breath.

Archer turns to him. “What was that?”

“Ah, nothin’ sir.”

T’Pol gives him the classic raised eyebrow before returning to the matter at hand. “Must I remind you, captain, that this is the same species who nearly destroyed _Enterprise_ when we last ran into them.”

“If that station had two Vulcan bio-signs,” Archer snaps, “what would _you_ do?”

“A Vulcan ship would never make a foolish-”

“What if it _did?_ ”

The science officer pauses for a moment. “Since the safety of an entire crew outweighs the safety of two individuals, it would be logical to leave them where they are, regardless of their status. However, scans would be taken to verify that there is no other option.”

“And if there were the option?” Trip asks.

“Then the preparation would take anywhere between five days to a week. Attempts would be made to hack into systems; strong, long and short-range scans would be taken without rest. Finally, it is highly likely that a combat cruiser would be sent to aid the original ship in reclaiming its lost crew members.”

Trip must admit, he didn’t expect T’Pol to actually have an answer.

“Well, it’s a good thing we’re not Vulcans,” says Archer simply. “We’ll be reaching that station in less than three hours. I’ll lead the team.”

“Captain-”

“I don’t need an argument, T’Pol. Tell Travis to get Hutchison to cover the helm – I’ll need him to get ready to pilot the shuttlepod over. Ensign Meng, too.”

“Might I suggest Ensign Cole in the science division as well?” T’Pol supplies, clearly realizing she can’t do a thing to change the captain’s mind. “He is adept at navigating through alien areas and also does double duty as a medical assistant in sickbay.”

Not even stopping to ask how she knows that, Archer nods.

Trip waits until the end of the exchange before he steps forward. “What about me, sir?”

The look of determination in the captain’s eyes flickers ever so subtly. “Trip, I…” He fumbles for the right words. “I think it’s best if you stayed behind this time.”

Trip’s eyes bulge, his mouth gaping open. He must have heard wrong. “Cap’n, you can’t be serious.”

“I _am_ serious, Trip,” Archer cuts in before Trip can even finish his sentence. “Under normal circumstances, I would allow you on the team, but the fact is you’re still recovering.”

“It’s been almost two months, sir.”

“And Phlox tells me it can take up to three for you to get your body mass back up. I’m sorry, but I can’t allow you.”

Trip is fuming. His teeth grind together, his fists clench until they’re sore. Noticing his body language, Archer softens his tone and says, “I don’t want to see you hurt again, Trip. God knows what we might find over there.”

_He’s right,_ says a voice deep in his mind, a voice that sounds eerily similar to Malcolm. Trip’s muscles start to relax once again. “Of course, sir. I understand.”

Archer lays a hand on his shoulder and offers a small smile. “You can stay on the comm for us. I promise you; we’ll get them back. We’ll get Malcolm back.”

“Captain,” T’Pol interjects. “I believe Mr. Tucker could be of assistance in another way.” Seeing the men’s blank expressions, she elaborates: “The station’s defences are minimal but not to be underestimated. If we attempt to launch a shuttlepod or get anywhere near them, for that matter, they will detect our presence almost immediately and our mission will have failed before it begins. My scans revealed that the station uses the same kind of security network as their ship does. We have enough competent information to knock out a few of their systems.”

The pieces start to fall into place and Trip nods. “Of course. I could get into their network, temporarily, knock out their sensors.”

“You can do that remotely?” Archer seems to be doing his best to hide a look of disbelief.

“It is theoretically possible,” T’Pol says.

“I can do it,” Trip jumps in confidently. “We’ll have to get close enough for it ta work, though. I’ll gain access through their main power grid and work my way there – coverin’ my tracks, don’t worry, sir. It’ll just look like a regular blackout.”

Archer nods. “I trust you, Trip. How long should this take?”

“Ah, maybe an hour? Hour an’ a half?”

“We don’t want to do it too soon or they may discover us.” The gears in the captain’s mind are starting to turn. “Alright. Take an early lunch break, gather whatever you need, and then meet me in the command centre at 1230 hours.”

“Aye, sir.”

Maybe not exactly what he had in mind but it’s enough for now. Trip flashes a thankful look at T’Pol and he swears there’s something in her own expression that hints at the slightest bit of pride.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Turn my face into the wind,  
> start to lose my faith again,  
> has this all just been a dream?”  
> \- In My Head, Virtual Riot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am happy to report that, yes, I am going to continue this fic. I'm not dropping it. As long as you guys are prepared for some potentially cliche or rushed scenes, that is.
> 
> Thanks goes out to Rowan once again for beta reading this long ass mess of a fic.

An hour and a half was an exaggeration. Really, he just wanted to prove to Archer that he’s ready, maybe change his mind about leaving him behind.

A slim possibility that is. And the longer Trip bustles around the command centre, entering in various codes and navigating complicated networks, the more he wishes he could be on the team.

He glances over at where T’Pol is explaining something to the captain, pointing to the screen, and he leans back a bit to hear.

“This shielding is interfering with my scans, captain. I can’t get an accurate reading but there looks to be approximately fifty-two aliens on that station.”

“That’s all?”

“You would prefer there be more?”

Archer coughs. “Uh, no. What about our people?”

“I can’t get an accurate reading on that either, only approximations. The best I can give you is that Ensign Hamaya is being held somewhere close to the port launch bay, where you intend to dock, in this section.” The science officer circles something with her finger. Trip cranes his neck to get a good look but to no avail. “However, Lieutenant Reed is located somewhere up in this area, a good distance from the launch bay. Their life signs are weak.”

“Thank you, T’Pol.”

Trip sees the indication that Archer is about to straighten up and hurriedly turns back to his console. While he highly doubts Archer will scold him for something as light as eavesdropping, he can’t risk the possibility of anyone finding out about his plan.

“How’s it coming there, Trip?”

“Uh, fine sir.” He glances briefly up to Archer and forces a smile. “I’ve found their sensor system.”

“No sign that they’ve detected us,” says Crewmen Fletcher from the monitor over.

Ensign Meng leans against the console. “What about their weapons?”

_You sound like Malcolm,_ Trip thinks, but he doesn’t say it out loud. A quiet chuckle provokes an odd look from the ensign – he quickly disguises it as a cough. “They have torpedoes and what looks like some kind of… large phase weapon. They’re all offline, though. Doesn’t look like they’ve been used in a while.”

“Let’s hope we don’t give them a reason to,” Archer says with a smile. Trip nods in agreement and returns his focus back to the monitor.

_“Mayweather to the Captain.”_

Archer presses the intercom. “This is the captain. Travis, you got the shuttlepod ready?”

_“Yes, sir. Ensigns Cole and Walsh are already down here with me. How are things coming on your end, sir?”_

“We’re doing fine.” Inquisitive green eyes drift over to Trip. “I think.”

The engineer gives him a thumbs up.

“We’ll be on our way down shortly. Archer out.”

Fletcher’s monitor gives off an urgent beeping sound. Trip’s heart begins to flutter almost instantly – they haven’t been locked out, have they? Anxiously, he looks to his assistant.

Fletcher’s fingers tap rapidly against the keys, his brow furrowed in deep concentration, until finally he reassures the room that it was only an access alert. “They still haven’t detected us,” the crewman explains, “but we should be careful. Some of these are highly protected areas that will sound an alarm the moment we touch them.”

Trip glances at the monitor and nods. “Confirmed, cap’n. Oh, an’ I have a complete look of their sensor system now. If yer approachin’ from the port side, I’ll only need to shut off the scanners on that side of the station. They seem to have limited width.”

“I’d be more comfortable if all scanners were shut off,” the captain hints.

“I could do that, but we run an even greater risk of being detected. We’ll leave a larger trail.”

“Perhaps if we put a block in this junction,” Fletcher suggests, pointing to the screen, “it’ll look like a power surge knocked them all out.”

Trip smirks. “Huh. I didn’t think of that.”

Archer claps a hand on Trip’s shoulder, grinning. “I take it you’ve got it under control, then. Shall we leave you to it?”

Fletcher and Trip exchange a nod. “Yes, sir,” says the crewman. “Good luck on your mission, sir.”

“Bring ‘em back,” Trip tacks on with a faltering smile.

The away team begins to file out of the room, but Archer lingers behind, his mouth open like he wants to say something. Trip raises an eyebrow.

Eventually, he seems to decide against voicing whatever it is on his mind, gives the two officers a wave and slips out into the hall. The door slides shut behind him with a faint click. Trip, realizing he’s been staring at a blank wall for a longer than normal amount of time, quickly returns to his console. “Is the block ready, crewman?”

“Almost, sir.”

“Good. Notice anythin’ suspicious? Any ships comin’ and goin’?”

Fletcher shakes his head. “Not that I can see. Although-” he reaches up and adjusts a dial “-I’ve managed to lock onto internal sensors inside what appears to be the docking bay.”

“Oh?” Trip squeezes in beside the crewman and peers at the screen. The image is fuzzy, with alien lettering covering most of the left side, but there’s no doubt. “An’ that’s the port side?”

“Yes, sir.”

A grin creeps along the commander’s lips. “We’ll be able ta monitor them from here. Good work, Fletcher.”

“Ah.” The crewman almost blushes. “Thank you, sir.”

The process is seamless. As soon as the alien scanners are confirmed disabled, Shuttlepod Two carrying Archer and four others departs from _Enterprise_ on a slow but steady intercept course. Travis estimates the trip will take around ten to twelve minutes approaching at their current speed. Everyone is holding their breath, including Commander Tucker.

Although that may be for an entirely different reason.

Trip glances back and forth between the back of “supplies” he brought up with him and Fletcher. He can’t just go unloading it in front of him or there will be questions.

“Take a break,” Trip says, cutting through the silence. Fletcher jerks up at the sound.

“Sorry, sir?”

“Take a break.” Trip motions with his head towards the door. “It’s not like we need two people to do this right now. They’re jus’ flyin’. Go get some coffee or whatever an’ come back in ten minutes.”

Fletcher shuffles on his feet, unsure of what to do. Finally, a small smile breaks out on his face; he breathes a, “yes, commander,” and promptly steps through the door. Trip sighs and runs a hand through his hair. Crewman Fletcher is competent, he tries to reassure himself. Young, a little inexperienced, but competent. He can handle this on his own.

Right?

Either way, Trip doesn’t have time to think about this. He’s got a mission of his own to plan.

Snatching up his shoulder bag, he empties out most of the contents on the table reluctantly – there’s no time to rush all the way down to engineering and drop it off. In his possession he keeps a hand scanner, a hyperspanner, a torch, and a phase pistol he’d stuffed in there when no one was looking.

“Why on _earth_ do you have that?”

Trip makes an unholy noise as he turns around to face a rather cross looking Malcolm. “Jesus, Lieutenant, ya gave me a heart attack!”

“Well, my apologies,” Malcolm says dryly. “Why do you have a phase pistol?”

“How did you even get in?”

“I came through the door.”

Trip stops organizing just long enough to shoot Malcolm a raised eyebrow. “I didn’t see ya come in.”

“Sir, all due respect, will you please answer my question?” Despite the formal address there’s no hiding the sneer in Malcolm’s voice. Trip shakes his head and sighs heavily.

“There’s no goddamn way I’m stayin’ behind,” he says simply, slinging the strap of his satchel over his shoulder and heading for the monitor T’Pol was working on earlier. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Malcolm’s face darken, comprehension crossing his features.

“Trip, are you out of your mind?”

Trip raises an eyebrow and without turning around responds flatly, “honestly? Maybe I am.”

“A rescue plan was tedious enough,” Malcolm exclaims, ignoring Trip’s comment, “and now you’re planning on what? Using the transporter to get over there, I’d assume?” At the commander’s nod, a scoff escapes his lips. “You only shut down their external scanners temporarily. What if they detect you transporting in? I told you, you should have listened to me and gone on your way.”

“Enough, Malcolm,” Trip cuts him off. “You can rant all you want but I ain’t listenin’ to a word, so jus’ save yer breath.”

“You’ll only get yourself killed. I’m not-”

“Yer not worth it, I know,” Trip says wearily. “Would ya quit bein’ so noble all the time?”

Hurt flashes across Malcolm’s face. “I was going to say I’m not able to be rescued, Commander, not that I wasn’t worth it.”

“I don’t believe ya.”

“Lord, Trip, would you give it a rest?” For the first time since… well, Trip can’t remember the last time, Malcolm has let his control slip. “If you think I’m doing this only for some self-sacrificing noble reason, you’re entirely wrong. I’ve been doing my best to keep you away from that godforsaken outpost because of the dangers it poses not only to you or the captain, but to the _Enterprise_ itself _._

“Over the years I’ve come to learn that perhaps I’m not just a disposable component of the ship, but that does not mean I’m worth risking the entire crew over. This whole rescue mission is a bad idea, and if I were really here, I’d be entirely against it.”

“Would you?” Trip glares holes through Malcolm’s skull. “’cause that’s not the Lieutenant Reed I know. You’d jump at the chance to risk yer life for crewmen in danger. Hell, you tore out yer oxygen tube when you were pinned ta the hull to try an’ force Cap’n Archer ta leave yer sorry ass behind!”

Malcolm’s eyes go wide. “You know about that?” he whispers, but Trip just continues talking.

“If yer tellin’ me that you’d sit on yer hands while two crewmen suffered, I don’t believe you for one second, Malcolm. I know you too well.”

Malcolm bows his head, refusing to meet his superior officer’s eyes.

“As I said before,” Trip adds softly, “you can’t change my mind. Both I an’ the Cap’n have already accepted the risks. I bet the rest of the crew would be pretty pissed if we backed out now anyway. Yer not the only one stuck over there – I’m sure Cutler’s been missin’ Ensign Hamaya’s assistance somethin’ fierce.”

The comment elicits a small chuckle from Malcolm, though he still won’t raise his head.

Trip sighs. “Right.” Straightening up, he motions for Malcolm to follow him out of the command centre. He’s gotten Malcolm’s general location; somewhere on one of the upper “bulbs” of the ship. “Cap’n estimated it’d take ‘em about ten to twelve minutes until they reach that station, an’ I just wasted the last four an’ a half arguin’ with you.”

“You want to get there before they arrive?”

“I wanna get a head start.” He offers a polite wave to an ensign walking by.

A few moments of silence pass before Malcolm speaks up again. “There’s just one more thing, sir.”

“I don’t have time for this, Lieutenant,” Trip snaps, hurrying his pace. Thank god the transporter and command centre are on the same deck. “Whatever it is, can it wait?”

“No, sir.”

Trip groans and pivots around, an eyebrow raised expectantly. He swears Malcolm is supressing a smirk at Trip’s annoyance.

“There’s a knife in my quarters,” Malcolm explains promptly. “You might want to take it with you.”

Trip blinks. “That’s a whole two decks above us, Lieutenant! Why the hell d’you want me to take yer knife?”

“Just trust me, Trip.” Malcolm’s eyes are vaguely pleading. Trip groans but gives in, heading back the way he came on swift feet.

It’s a lot of running, and he’s practically panting by the time he reaches the transporter, but the adrenalin flowing through his veins keeps him alert. Trip does a quick check to make sure no one will walk by before he plants himself in front of the controls to input the coordinates. Malcolm stands off to the side, staring apprehensively between Trip and the transporter.

“That damn shieldin’ is still up,” Trip mumbles to himself. It’s not much of an issue – he’s spent the last three hours studying it. All he needs to do is adjust the particle variance of the transporter to get through it. It’s got an eighty percent chance of working correctly. “Let’s hope it does the trick. Malcolm, get up there.”

Malcolm doesn’t budge.

“Lieutenant,” Trip tries, hoping the use of rank will get his attention. He’s anxious to get going, anxious to leave before someone rounds the corner and spots him, or before the annoying prickle of paranoia in the back of his mind takes over and he backs out. “ _Malcolm._ For fuck’s sake, now’s not the time to be havin’ on of yer little episodes.”

“I’m not,” says Malcolm quietly. Taking a deep breath, he steps up on to the transporter pad. “Sorry, Trip.”

Trip grunts in response, yanks up the lever, and lunges for the transporter.

Getting disassembled and promptly reassembled is an experience he has yet to get used. Almost in slow motion, the familiar walls around him fade away, replaced by a long eerie looking hallway lit by dim lights at even intervals, and a stench that smells an awful lot like the boy’s locker room at his old high school. Trip wrinkles his nose and brings a sleeve up to his face.

“I made it,” he tells himself, and suddenly coughs as the stale air makes its way into his lungs. His voice bounces off the walls and disappears into the empty hallway. “In one piece, too. I hope.”

The communicator in his pocket chimes. He ignores it and turns to Malcolm, a victorious grin on his face.

But Malcolm isn’t there.

Trip’s face falls. He does a slow three-sixty, taking in as much of the surrounding area as he can in this awful light, hoping to catch sight of brown hair or an _Enterprise_ uniform.

There’s nothing.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Who’s to know if your soul will fade at all,  
> the one you sold to fool the world.”  
> \- Fake It, Seether

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one relies heavily on dialogue and minimum action. No fighting in this chapter, I'm afraid. xD Hope y'all find it decent all the same.
> 
> Oh, and any intense TNG fans MIGHT be able to identify which aliens I'm using for this story - while the description of them is albeit somewhat vague. I'll give you a hint: acting and mind manipulation.
> 
> Not beta-read, all mistakes are my own

Trip ducks around a more concealed corner, focusing on trying to slow down his breathing, and his thoughts while he’s at it. His communicator chimes again. Trip’s body seizes up, all movement within him coming to a halt as he becomes convinced the damn thing’s just given away his position. Fortunately, no aliens appear. Luck is on his side somehow and he seems to have found himself in a more deserted part of the ship.

“Malcolm,” he hisses as loud as he dares. Is his voice really that shaky? “Malcolm, where are you?”

It’s a useless question to ask, of course, when one’s only company is a dark alien ship and an echo of their own words. When his communicator chimes a third time, Trip realizes the only thing he can do to shut it up is answer it.

He’s not even halfway through saying his own name when the Captain’s voice comes blaring through the speaker. _“And just what the_ hell _do you think you’re doing, Commander?!”_

It takes a few seconds for Trip to find his voice again. “Sir, I-”

 _“I tried to comm through to you, but it was Crewman Fletcher who answered. He said you’d run off. Do you realize what you’ve just done?”_ Archer sounds more pissed than Trip’s ever heard him before. _“Those shields are interfering with our transporter. I don’t know_ how _you got over there in the first place but there’s no way we can get you back now. You’re stuck there.”_

“I’d rather be stuck here than in my quarters waitin’ for information,” Trip shoots back immediately.

Archer makes a noise somewhere in between a sigh and a groan of frustration. _“Our ETA is five minutes. Get to the port launch bay and do not move once you get there, understand?"_

“An’ if an alien comes at me with a weapon, sir?”

_“This is insubordination, Trip. I could write you up for this.”_

“I’m sure you could,” says Trip wryly, “an’ honestly, I’d be surprised if ya didn’t. But I had ta be here, cap’n. I know you don’t understand. Just… trust me.”

Archer is silent, and the silence drags on for so long that Trip wonders if they’ve been disconnected, but then he speaks again, calmer this time. No, not calm. Weary. _“I can't trust you, Trip. Not right now."_ Trip's heart sinks. _"But I suspect I don't have much choice at the moment._ _You know where the launch bay is, I assume?”_

“I do, sir.”

_“Good. Archer out.”_

Trip lets his arm fall and screws his eyes shut, leaning against the filthy wall of the alien station. A part of him half expected Archer to threaten to throw him off _Enterprise_ – maybe even Starfleet as a whole. Is Malcolm worth that?

 _Yes,_ Trip decides immediately.

His eyes snap open at the sound of a door slamming from somewhere nearby. In an instant, Trip presses himself flat against the wall, phase pistol clutched in one sweaty hand. His breathing is too harsh, too shallow. They’ll notice. Surely, they’ll notice.

He dares not peer his head around the corner, fearing he’ll be spotted. Instead, he lets his ears do the work, and picks up the sound of conversation mingled with the gentle tapping of footsteps. If only he’d brought a translator with him maybe he could figure out what they’re saying, if it’s anything to do with Malcolm and Hamaya, but the individuals are speaking so hushed and fast he doubts it could even lock on.

The voices and footsteps get nearer and nearer, all the while Trip’s heart beats faster and faster, praying to whatever deity will listen that he won’t be spotted. He can’t be spotted. Not while he’s so close.

The aliens walk right past him. While he doesn’t get a good look at their features in the hauntingly dim light, he thinks he sees some kind of ridge circling around their head. He considers following them but ultimately abandons the idea when he pictures Archer’s enraged face.

Port side entrance. Trip recalls the map he spent hours staring at. If he goes through the doors the aliens just emerged from and takes the left, he should be near enough.

Quickly, he checks to make sure there’s no one else that can surprise him, and ducks down the hall. The doors are automatic without even needing a key card or a scan and he slips right through with ease, ending up in a more brightly lit part of the station. Footsteps echo from somewhere, not close enough to be of any concern. Trip takes a deep breath in and releases it slowly. He’s never felt this nervous in his life – not even when he was squished inside a doorway as the bulkhead in front of him threatened to blow.

Something knocks into him. Trip stumbles backwards, waving his phase pistol blindly until he comes to realize that the hit was not real, not physical.

An image flickers in his mind’s eye. It’s closer than the last time he experienced this. Instead of pale walls lined with pipes, Trip sees a more familiar setting. _Enterprise._

Shouting. He can hear shouting. Human voices, speaking English.

The ship rocks. He’s sent flying into a wall, pain shooting through his left shoulder. The metal groans all around him – common sense says he should get out of there before the wall blows but he cannot abandon search now.

Search? Search for what?

_I can save him._

He’s jerked out of this strange “memory” by a voice. No, voices. Three, maybe more, speaking so quietly he can’t tell if it’s English or not. _Better not take any chances,_ he decides and readies his phase pistol. A firefight is the last thing he wants. For the moment, at least. Once this is over and they have Malcolm and Hamaya back safe and sound, Trip won’t mind blowing these bastards to hell and back.

Careful not to make even the smallest squeak, Trip shuffles to the side with his back pressed to the wall, ears straining to pick up what the voices are saying. Closer, they’re getting closer. Right around the corner. Without a second thought, Trip whirls around, phase pistol at the ready, and finds himself staring down the barrels of exactly five others. The away team. A laugh bubbles in his throat that he has to force down.

The team’s stance relaxes as they realize who it is. “Commander,” whispers Ensign Meng, a ghost of a smile on her lips. Trip grins back.

Then an angered hiss of, “goddamn it, Trip,” wipes it off his face pretty quickly. Too wrapped up in the relief that he wasn’t about to face a group of aliens, Trip forgot all about the captain being mad at him.

“Cap’n-”

“Don’t try to justify your actions.” Archer’s eyes narrow. “I’ll give you a good flogging later, but not now. Now, we need to get through this as quick as possible. Plans have changed thanks to you, Commander.”

Trip’s stomach sinks at the implication. “Sir?”

“They detected your transport. Hoshi was listening in on their communications; she said she heard talk of a ‘strange energy reading’ coming from the deck you appeared on.”

The aliens who walked by. _God,_ Trip thinks, _were they looking for me?_

Archer continues: “Crewman Fletcher managed to disable most of their internal sensors and surveillance, but they know we’re here. The only advantage we have is that they don’t know how many of us there are.”

“Or that we also arrived by shuttlepod,” adds Travis, “but it won’t be long before they discover it. Have you found any indication of where they’re keeping Malcolm and Hamaya?”

Trip’s throat feels dry – he has to swallow a few times before his voice will work. “No. No, I haven’t.” _You’ve really fucked up this time,_ sneers a cold voice in his head.

“How many aliens have you seen?” Meng asks.

“Only a few,” answers Trip. “What was it T’Pol said, sir? Fifty-five?”

Archer doesn’t look the slightest bit surprised at the knowledge that Trip had been listening. “Fifty-two,” he corrects. His gaze grows sharp once again, turning to the engineer. "Really, Commander. I expected better from-"

He’s interrupted by a sudden burst of phaser fire, originating from Meng’s weapon. The rest of them hadn’t even seen the alien.

“It was on stun,” Meng informs them quietly as Ensigns Cole and Walsh and Captain Archer rush to the crumpled figure’s side. Trip also approaches it, eager to get a good look at what sick bastards decided to kidnap three of their crew and torture them.

Unconscious, the alien looks completely unassuming. Harmless. Eerily similar to humans aside from the twin arches that start at the centre of their forehead and fade into their cheekbones. Long hair and slim frame seem to indicate female. “She could be some kind of doctor,” Trip offers, pointing to the traditional white lab coat that is draped around her form.

“Whoever she is – _whatever_ she is – she’s now lying here unconscious,” Archer says. “A clear sign that we’ve been here.” He shoots a glare to Ensign Meng that Trip thinks isn’t entirely fair. She was just doing her job, after all.

Archer stands up and addresses the group. “They could have detected our weapons fire. We’ll have to be fast. Ensign Cole, I want you to take as many detailed scans of this alien before she wakes up. The rest of you, fan out. We’ll have better luck splitting up.”

A surge of desperation floods through Trip’s body. “No!” he cries before he can stop himself. The reaction is instantaneous: all eyes train on him, startled at the harsh sound; Ensign Meng’s fingers tight unconsciously around the phase pistol.

“No,” Trip says again, the desperation fleeting as quickly as it appeared. “That’s a bad idea, sir.”

“If we’re separated, sir,” Ensign Meng chimes in, “they have an easier chance at picking us off one by one.” Trip flashes her a grateful look.

Archer sighs and raises a hand to his forehead. “Well, we can’t move as one big group.”

“Then put us in pairs or somethin’, Cap’n.” Trip is fully aware of the pleading note in his voice but can’t bring himself to care. “I know where Malcolm is. Well, sorta.”

“Alright, fine.” Beneath the exasperation, does the captain look embarrassed? “Travis, you’ll go with Trip. Try and find Malcolm. Ensign Hamaya’s location is a bit harder pinpoint; the rest of us will try to find him. Ensign Meng, you’re with me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ensigns Cole and Walsh glance at each other, a flicker of animosity in their gazes. Perhaps the engineering-tactical rivalry isn’t just limited to Trip and Malcolm. Trip chuckles.

“…take scans of the aliens once we have everyone back here safely,” Archer is saying. Trip snaps back to attention, trying to act like he’s been listening the whole time. “Ready?”

“Yes, sir,” the group replies unanimously.

Archer gives them a nod. “Good luck.”

 _We’re gonna need it,_ Trip thinks gravely.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Running just as fast as we can,  
> holding onto one another’s hands,  
> trying to get away into the night.”  
> \- I Think We’re Alone Now, The Wild Reeds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for some sweet, sweet, (hella angsty) action, y'all.

“Down here,” says Trip, pointing Travis in the direction of the area he emerged from earlier. “Cap’n tell you that he’s a bit of a distance away?”

“He did, sir.”

“Right.”

They step through the automatic doors in silence, phase pistols at the ready, scanners in hand. The flashlight in Trip’s bag bumps against his hip and he debates using it in the dimness, though ultimately pushes the idea away. A moving beam of light is the exact thing that’ll get them caught.

“This way.” Travis glances up from his scanner and gestures down a corridor to the left.

Trip, taking one last glance down the corridor straight ahead, nods and turns to follow, only to be stopped in his tracks, breath hitching.

“Malcolm.”

Does he say the name or merely think it? He isn’t sure.

Malcolm lifts his head stiffly as if in pain, grey eyes hollow and ringed with dark circles. Blood trickles steadily down his neck from an unknown source. This isn’t what shocks Trip into near cardiac arrest, though. It’s the gaping hole in Malcolm’s chest.

Nightmare Malcolm.

Trip sinks to his knees, erratic tremors running through his system. Malcolm watches with a look best described as indifference as the engineer collapses.

Then suddenly a hand grabs him by the shoulder and Trip snaps back to reality, sucking in a deep breath as if he’d been deprived of oxygen, his body still shaking. Travis stares down at him with his eyebrows knit together in concern. “You okay, Commander?”

Trip’s eyes flicker to the spot where Malcolm was but he’s already vanished. “Yeah,” he breathes eventually. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Travis isn’t convinced. “What got you so spooked, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Nothin’,” Trip says a little too quickly. He stumbles to his feet, refusing the young helmsman’s offer of help. “Jus’ thought I saw somethin’.” Something tells him it wasn’t just a trick of the light – but there’s no way he’s telling Travis that.

Travis waves his scanner around and shakes his head. “No aliens close. There’s a pair headed our way, though. We should move.”

“Got it.” Trip winces and rubs his forehead against the sudden onslaught of a dull headache. “Lead the way, Travis.”

“Actually, sir, I thought you would like to do the honour.”

“’scuse me?”

Travis raises an eyebrow. “You told me – when you went into shock by whatever it is you saw. Lab 49C.”

Now it’s Trip’s turn to give the inquisitive expression. “I don’t remember. Lab? Don’t like the sound of that.”

“Neither do I.”

Trip exhales slowly and flicks his eyes around. Come to think of it, this corridor seems familiar somehow, like he’s been here before. “Lab 49C sounds about right. God knows _why,_ ” he adds quickly as he sees Travis’s expression. “A’ight then. Follow me.”

The familiar feel gets more and more intense as he winds his way through the corridors. He passes by a small circular window that peers out into space, out onto the small rogue planet that _Enterprise_ is hiding behind, and a sudden urge to _escape, escape now_ floods his mind. Travis has to physically push him along.

Soon the light begins to get brighter, and the walls, previously blank and smooth, are now lined with various doorways with strange alien symbols scribbled above them. Trip and Travis are silent, communicating in only vague gestures and facial expressions.

Trip sees Malcolm one more time. It’s only a brief glance, but still long enough to catch the wounds on the man’s body. Malcolm doesn’t even look his way before he vanishes around a corner. Trip moves to follow, and Travis – bless the helmsman – doesn’t question it.

By the time they reach Malcolm’s apparent location Trip’s heart is racing so fast he’s worried it’ll leap out from his chest. He’s antsy, too, both from nerves and adrenaline. _Almost there._

A part of him doesn’t quite believe it.

“Malcolm’s in the first room on the right,” Travis breathes as he taps away at the scanner. “There’s two aliens with him.”

Trip’s grip on the phase pistol tightens. He doesn’t need to be told what to do.

The first alien drops to the floor the moment Travis’ beam makes contact, but Trip’s hand is shaking when he aims for the second. He misses.

The alien hisses something that doesn’t sound very polite and, reaching into his belt, pulls out a weapon of his own. Trip’s finger tightens around the trigger.

This time, he doesn’t miss.

“I’ll keep watch out here,” says Travis. “You go and get Malcolm.”.

Trip nods and runs to the side of the figure lying strapped to a table, unforgivingly kicking the first alien out of the way. He’s only subconsciously aware of the monitors lining the walls – most of his attention is on Malcolm. He almost freezes in pure shock at what lies before him.

Malcolm is strapped to a table, the leather binds tight around his thin wrists and ankles. As Trip gets closer, he sees one wrapped around his neck as well. His jumpsuit has been discarded long ago, replaced by simple black pants. There are dark circles around his closed eyes - bruises and contusions litter Malcolm’s face and bare torso, with the addition of what seems like surgery scars across his chest.

_Heart. Something’s wrong with his heart._

The realization is accompanied by the same eerie familiarity the entire ship has, like he already knew this.

Trip lifts a gentle hand to cup Malcolm’s cheek. His skin is cold and dry. There’s no response from the touch.

 _Gotta get him outta here._ Trip grabs the straps around Malcolm’s wrists, but no amount of tugging will tear them away. Now he realizes why Malcolm told him to bring the knife.

The blade cuts through the fabric with ease. Before Trip can act next, the unconscious man on the table stirs, grey eyes prying open to mere slits. Trip leans forward and watches as they flit around for a few moments before finally landing on him, and a bony, pale hand reaches up and grasps Trip’s shoulder with frightening strength. A voice, rough from months of neglect, croaks, “Tri…”

“I’m here.” Trip grabs the hand with his own and smiles genuinely, struggling to keep the tears at bay. “We’ve got ya, Malcolm.”

He can’t wrap his head around it. He has so many questions. He wants to ask if Malcolm remembers anything, wants to confirm if the image he was seeing was real or just a figment of his imagination, but now is not the time. Besides, Malcolm has already slipped away again, his breathing slowly beginning to steady.

Quickly, Trip flings Malcolm’s arm over his shoulders and grabs his waist. He’s dangerously light and nearly all points. From one of the panels to the left, something beeps, likely prompted from the removal of the test subject.

 _Test subject._ Trip suddenly feels sick. Malcolm was – _is_ – a living human being, not some lab rat. If they ever come across these aliens again Trip won’t hesitate to blow them out of the sky.

“Commander, we’ve got trouble.”

Trip’s head flies up, hands busy adjusting Malcolm into a more comfortable hold, as Travis comes darting into the room.

“Some kind of alarm, sir.” Without waiting for a response, Travis grabs Malcolm’s limp right arm and slings it around the back of his neck so that the Lieutenant is pressed between the two of them. “It isn’t auditory. At least, not in the way you or I know.”

“What the hell d’you mean by that?”

“I think it’s set at a certain pitch we can’t hear. I only know because the scanners picked it up.”

As if on cue, a pair of aliens emerge from a nearby room, weapons raised. Travis shoots them down with surprising accuracy and speed – Trip doesn’t even have time to get his weapon out.

“We should hurry.”

And hurry they do. At some point early on, carrying Malcolm in between them creates too many problems, so Trip hauls him into his arms bridal style (and shoots a look at Travis which reads _do not ever speak of this_ ) while the helmsman runs on ahead, weapon ready. However light Malcolm has become, carrying a fully grown man is not an easy task, especially when one is still recovering from a coma. By the time they meet up with the rest of the group, Trip is practically gasping for breath.

Ensign Meng reaches out to take Malcolm off his hands. Trip jerks away from her with an unfocused glare, grip only tightening. He’s not letting go. He refuses to lose Malcolm again.

Absentmindedly, he notices Ensign Cole clutching the much larger Hamaya in a similar manner.

“The door’s locked, sir!” Walsh cries suddenly.

Trip’s head whips around to find the ensign on his knees in front of the entrance to the launch bay.

“What do you mean, locked?” Archer snaps. “It’s an automatic door!”

“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s just not opening.”

“Sir-” Travis gestures with his scanner “-we have company.”

“Communication isn’t functioning,” Meng is next to add.

“Closing in on our position-”

“There’s some kind of code-”

“I can’t get in touch with the ship-”

Trip says nothing. He casts his eyes downcast, staring at Malcolm’s pale and lax face.

 _I got you,_ he whispers in his mind. _You’re coming home. Please, you’ve got to come home._

The chatter falls abruptly into silence, a silence that is far too uncomfortable to be natural. Trip looks up and his blood instantly runs cold when he sees the reason – four aliens, and a fifth one just rounding the corner, all clutching weapons in their six-fingered hands.

The security team reacts immediately. Ensign Meng assumes a defensive stance, placing herself directly in front of the captain, while Walsh jumps to the front also and stands next to her, weapon ready. Trip, unsure of what else to do, cowers behind them.

It’s a stare-off for the first few seconds, both sides waiting for the other to make a move, until the second alien to the right speaks. It’s not to them, though; it’s to his comrade. The alien tongue rolls by too quickly for anyone’s translators to pick up. God, what he wouldn’t give to have Hoshi here right now.

“Lower your weapons,” Meng commands finally. The aliens pay her no mind, their attention instead drifting to stare at Trip.

No, not Trip. At Malcolm.

The engineer bristles, pressing Malcolm closer to his chest. _You’re not getting him back, ya bastards._

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, the one who’d been talking procures some kind of remote, fingers hovering over a bright green button. A phase pistol is fired, from Meng or Walsh no one is clear of, the beam colliding directly with the alien’s wrist, but they are a split second too late.

No sooner is the button pressed when Malcolm draws in a harsh, gasping breath, his whole body seizing in Trip’s arms before going completely still.

The next few moments are a blur.

His knees unable to bear the added weight any longer, Trip sinks to the floor, Malcolm sliding limply with him. Commotion occurs all around him – phaser fire, frantic yells spoken in English and an alien tongue. Trip barely registers all that. With a shaking hand, he presses two fingers to Malcolm’s neck.

And finds nothing.

No pulse. No heartbeat.

He swears his own stops beating as well. _This can’t be happening._

He looks up just in time to see a beam of yellow light flying directly towards him, just in time to hear someone scream “commander!” before pain spreads rapidly through his body like a fire and burns away the world. Only one final, despairing thought manages to break through the sudden onset of darkness: _I couldn’t save him._


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “…and it’s always dark for those who are sleeping,  
> I’ll wake up soon, I promise.”  
> \- Jeg Lover (I promise), Siri Nilsen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back-to-back publishing since this chapter is so short. Hope y'all like it ;)

He’s running. His legs are already beginning to tire, throat burning from exertion, but the adrenaline fueling his veins keeps him from collapsing. He can’t afford to give out now – none of them can. They are almost there, almost to the escape hatch that guarantees their safety.

The ground drops away when he’s mere inches from freedom.

_Gotta save him_ says two voices in perfect unison.

Tears sting his eyes – the words feel like a stab wound to the heart. _I couldn’t._

Suddenly he’s drowning, struggling to stay afloat in an endless ocean, salty water slithering its way into his lungs. Fear grips him, drags him down like he has led in his boots. Oh, he struggles. He struggles as hard and as much as he can and he even manages to break the surface, hollering a strained “ _help me!_ ” at the small boat that wasn’t there before, at the single occupant on the deck. There’s something about that soft dark hair and wide eyes that strike him as familiar, but he cannot fathom why, and the roaring ocean swallows him whole before he can try to make sense of it.

His lungs constrict and spasm painfully from the lack of oxygen. He flails his arms fruitlessly, watching in dismay as the surface fades farther and farther away until he’s left alone in the depths of a watery hell. What else can he do but let go? His eyelids start to flutter shut…

… and then a voice shouts his name.

_Trip!_

Vibrant blue eyes snap open. Seized by a sudden burst of energy, Trip bolts upright on the sickbay bed and says the first thing that comes to mind.

“Malcolm.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So take me back,  
> when I believed,  
> back when I was unafraid  
> just like a thief.”  
> \- Thief, Imagine Dragons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Rowan for providing me with correct medical information - especially catching my blunder with the function of a defib xD

Trip spends the next three minutes curled in on himself in agony. While only a minor phaser injury, as Phlox assured him, the combination of alien technology and a bad fall left him with stiff joints and an injured kneecap, as well as a minor burn to his upper torso. “When you feel up for it,” Phlox said brightly, “may I recommend some stretching exercises?”

Trip glared at him for that. Well, the best of a glare he could give while locked in by sore muscles.

Now he’s starting to feel better but isn’t quite ready to brave the risk of moving just yet. Phlox darts back and forth between cabinets and bio-beds, the occupants Trip can’t see as his head is so stiff. He notices with great relief that at least he isn’t hooked up to any sort of machine. Can’t have been that long, then. “How long was I out?” he asks, just to make sure.

Phlox regards the enquiry with his signature grin. “A little over four hours.” He looks away briefly as Crewman Cutler passes over a PADD and reports back to her place at Hamaya’s side. “I’m afraid I can’t give you the full story, however. You will have to wait for Captain Archer to fill you in on the details.”

“Cap’n’s comin’?” Trip straightens up and immediately winces as his joints crack. Christ, what is he – eighty?

“He said he’ll come by,” Phlox explains. “Gave no specifications. I suspect it won’t be for some time – he seemed, as you would say, ‘beat’.”

Trip eyes close. “I don’t blame ‘im,” he says softly. Memories come back in disjointed fragments – alien weapons, a strange remote, a frantic firefight, the lack of a pulse. Tears leak through closed eyelids and Trip is much too exhausted to wipe them away. “How’s, uh-” that was one _hell_ of a voice crack “-h-how’s Hamaya?”

“Unconscious but alive.” The catch in Trip’s voice is not lost by the doctor. “Are you alright?”

 _Alright? I got my best friend killed_ again _and you ask me if I’m fucking alright?!_ “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“I must say, Commander, I find it curious how you haven’t enquired about Lieutenant Reed’s wellbeing.”

Trip’s eyes fly open and he turns his neck much too quickly to face the doctor. “What?”

“The Lieutenant,” Phlox repeats, as if speaking to a small child. Then he steps aside to reveal a pale figure lying on the next bio-bed over.

Tousled, greasy, and long dark hair fans out over a contrasting white pillow, his head angled slightly towards Trip. The harsh lights of sickbay serve to only highlight the worst of what the man has been through – an unkempt beard doing little to cover a thin and bruised face; his collarbone is sharply pronounced. The arm exposed for the IV line is thin as well. Even through the sheets the outlines of his ribs are visible.

Before Phlox can object Trip lurches off his bio-bed, ignoring the ache in his muscles, and stumbles clumsily over to Malcolm’s side. He reaches one hesitant hand out and lets it rest on his arm. He still doesn’t quite believe it. “But…” Trip swallows thickly. “That’s not… doc, how did…?”

Unfortunately, by Phlox’s inquisitive frown, Trip realizes that broken sentence fragments aren’t going to cut it.

“He died, Phlox.” His voice catches on the word _died_. “The aliens – one of ‘em had this thing, li-like a remote or somethin’. They pressed a button an’ Malcolm fell an’…” Tears drop freely from his eyes, landing on the sheets. “His heart’d stopped. I felt it myself.”

“Ah.” Phlox steps forward and lays a gentle hand on Trip’s shoulder. The gesture surprises him a little bit, he knows how Denobulans avoid casual touch. “Yes, you have Ensign Cole’s quick thinking to thank for that. It was fortunate he insisted on bringing a med-kit. From what he told me, Ensign Cole injected the Lieutenant with a nanite pacemaker and began CPR to get the blood flowing.” Seeing Trip’s blank look Phlox explains, “essentially an injected pacemaker. Relatively new in the medical field but it worked a treat, is what I believe to be the correct term.”

Tension seeps out of Trip’s muscles and he almost collapses right then and there. Malcolm’s alright. Malcolm is alive. “Thank god,” he mutters.

“An appropriate exclamation,” Phlox agrees cheerfully. “Now, then. Back to bed.”

Trip’s eyes flicker towards the doctor and then back to Malcolm. He doesn’t want to leave his friend’s side. Not after everything they’ve been through.

The muscles in his legs share a very different opinion, however, and with Phlox’s help he allows himself to be coaxed back into bed. “Am I gonna be released soon?” Trip asks through clenched teeth as he tugs his sore knee up onto the mattress.

Phlox shrugs. “You weren’t one-hundred percent cleared for duty when you defied orders and transported over to that alien station. As the ship’s doctor it’s my job to make sure you’re all okay before I let you go.” The message is clear – this is Trip’s punishment.

Trip lets his breath out slowly and leans back against the pillows. All things considered; it could be worse.

Sickbay doors slide open. Without thinking, Trip lifts his head, giving an audible groan between clenched teeth as pain spikes through his skull. When it finally lets up, he blinks the spots from his eyes is met with Ensign Meng’s gaze.

Her dark hair is still up in the bun that hasn’t been touched if the frizzy strands of hair is anything to go by. Her jumpsuit is zipped down to her mid abdomen, her collar partially undone, but there’s something else, something different about her that Trip can’t put his finger on.

A few seconds later his brain catches up and he realizes it’s the sling Meng’s right arm is resting in.

“Ah, Ensign!” Phlox chirps, appearing from behind a set of shelves. “Finally, here for your treatment, hm?”

“Treatment?”

Their eyes turn to land on him. _Shit, I spoke out loud._ Trip waves a dismissive hand, swallowing the grimace that threatens to accompany the movement. “Never-mind.”

“It’s only a minor injury,” Meng still reassures him. “Grazed with one of the alien’s phase pistols. It definitely wasn’t a clean escape.”

 _I’m sure,_ Trip thinks. He can’t reroute the words to his mouth, so he just sits there in silence until Phlox rescues the awkward staring with a cough.

“Now, then. If you’ll come this way, Ensign, I can begin to apply the necessary dressing. You’re not planning on running off on me again, I assume?”

Meng makes a small choking noise. “Uh, no.”

Trip watches them, a smirk on his face, until they vanish from his field of view. He takes one last glance at Malcolm’s supine form lying on the next bio-bed over, not quite convinced he isn’t still dreaming.

Archer walks into sickbay an hour and a half later, looking equally as dishevelled and exhausted. Despite all this, though, a big grin stretches across his lips when he sees his friend already standing own two feet. “Feeling better, then, Commander?”

Trip, who had his back to the doors, turns around just a bit too quickly and wobbles, fortunately grabbing the bio-bed for support at just the right moment. “Uh, yeah, sir.” He smiles as well, noticeably strained. “Can I ask what happened? Or do I need ta wait like last time?” He means it to be joke but Archer’s joyed expression falters at the memory.

“I’m sure the captain can provide you with every little detail,” says Phlox, appearing out of nowhere, “so long as you get back into your bed. This is the second time I’ve caught you up and about like this.”

“I really don’t think I need ta be confined to a bed, doc,” Trip complains, but relents anyway. He swears he catches the doctor giving Archer a wink.

“If you’ll excuse me.” Phlox acknowledges each of them with a nod before vanishing to yet another unseen corner of sickbay.

Trip sighs, bringing a stiff arm up and rubbing his hand along his forehead, eyes closing momentarily. “Tell me, Cap’n.” He looks up again. “What’d I miss after I was shot?”

Archer shuffles his weight uncomfortably at the last word and runs a hand through his hair. “To be frank, Trip,” he begins, “I’m not too sure either. Everything happened so fast I don’t think anyone really knows how we got out of there. All of us alive, at that.” A forced chuckle escapes his throat. “Things obviously turned into a frantic firefight after you got shot. I believe it was Ensign Walsh who eventually pried the launch bay doors open and got us to the shuttlepod. From there, we quickly realized something had gone wrong with Lieu- Malcolm.”

Trip swallows thickly, his own memories coming forth unbidden. “That remote the aliens had… it did somethin’ ta Malcolm’s heart.” Archer nods. “An’ what about Ensign Hamaya, then? Did the same thing happen ta him?”

“I think they were about to,” the captain says grimly. “Another one of them had a similar remote. Walsh shot it him before anything could be pressed.”

Trip freezes when a disturbing feeling begins to roll around in his gut. Is it… resentment? Towards Hamaya for not going through the same thing? _Damn, Charles Tucker, never pegged ya for being cruel._ “But I guess everything worked out, huh?”

Matching gazes turn towards the unconscious Lieutenant. “The shuttlepod was a flurry of activity,” Archer goes on. “Eight people in one tiny space – four inured and three of those unconscious. It wasn’t easy but, yes, the Lieutenant was revived, thanks to Ensign Cole.”

“I hope yer givin’ him a commendation.”

Archer chuckles again, not forced this time. “I’ve already sent it in. As for you, Trip, as angry as I was with you, I just remember thanking whatever gods exist that you’d only been stunned. Phlox and his crew were already waiting in the launch bay. Malcolm and Hamaya were rushed in straight away; the rest of us went through decon as normal. Don’t worry,” he adds, seeing Trip’s horrified expression, “no one stripped you down. Phlox assured us the gel wasn’t required and none of us carried any sort of viruses.”

Trip breathes a heavy sigh of relief.

“Anyway, you were hauled off to a bio-bed, I went to make necessary reports to Starfleet and the victims’ families, and I believe you know the rest.”

“Actually, sir, I don’t,” Trip says softly, eyes wandering to Malcolm.

Archer frowns, curious.

“Whatever the hell it was that made Malcolm’s heart stop like that,” Trip clarifies, doing his best to keep the hint of anger that keeps threatening to creep into his tone at bay. “That remote – i-it’s like they were controllin’ ‘im. Have ya figured out how they did that?”

Archer’s face twists slightly, mouth opening but he seems to be at a loss for words. Fortunately, Phlox appears at just the right time to break the silence once more.

“As of right now, I have yet to find any explanation for that.” He looks apologetic, almost guilty as he informs them. “Both the Lieutenant and Ensign bear scars along their chests and upper abdominal areas, suggesting a surgery. If I had to guess, I’d say there’s a likely possibility that the aliens placed some sort of implant there, invisible to my scans.”

The words hang heavy in the air, their meaning sinking in for Trip just a few seconds behind everyone else. “Why?”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that.” Phlox attempts a sad smile. “Believe me, Commander, I will not rest until I find everything there is to know. I’ve been getting some odd readings in the electric activities of their brains which is where I am starting my search. However, don’t expect an answer right away.”

Trip nods speechlessly.

“Thanks, doctor,” Archer says.

Phlox bows his head and returns to feeding his menagerie.

A series of _what ifs_ begin to formulate in Trips brain. What if Malcolm’s heart stops again? Who knows what range those remotes have? What if Malcolm is different when he wakes up? What if Malcolm doesn’t wake up at all?

He jumps as a hand touches his shoulder and drags him out of the worry spiral. “Malcolm will be fine,” the captain reassures, reading his mind. “Why don’t you get some rest, Trip? You’re off duty for the rest of the week.”

“Cap’n-”

“No arguments.” Though harsh, Archer’s voice is more akin to an older brother than a captain. “Consider it time to clear your head and your punishment for sneaking off the ship like that.”

 _Ah, right._ Trip’s face turns red and his eyes shift to look at the floor. “I really am sorry, cap’n. I jus’ had ta… it was like somethin’ was drawin’ me over there.”

“Get some rest,” is all Archer says, giving Trip one final pat on the shoulder before turning to leave sickbay.

A sudden wave of exhaustion envelopes Trip. Mindful of his sore joints and especially of his injured knee, he crawls back under the covers, lying on his left side so he can see Malcolm as he drifts off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't really think I'd kill Malcolm after all that, did you? ;)


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Everything is quiet,  
> except for all the voices in my head  
> that say your name...”  
> \- I Surrender, Saybia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I'd give Travis and Hoshi a bit of "screen" time for this chapter.

_“Trip.”_

There it is, that voice again. Like something straight out of a movie. _Ghost of Christmas past?_ Trip thinks wryly as he tosses the torchlight back into the toolkit, reaching to grab instead a hyperspanner. It took some convincing, his still sore knee doing little to help, but he managed to convince Phlox and Archer to let him resume his duties. Under strict orders not to do anything strenuous but it was better than nothing.

The voice, usually occurring once or twice a day, never says anything more than his name. He can’t quite recognize who it belongs to because it’s gone before he can really try and focus on it, but he has a feeling. A rather strong feeling, at that.

But how can Malcolm be calling his name when he’s locked in a coma in sickbay?

Trip pushes the thought from his mind. No need to go worrying anyone – especially Phlox – that he’s gone slightly insane.

Again.

He leans back, a grin on his face as he does one more check over his repairs. _Enterprise_ has certainly been much healthier since they stopped following that alien vessel, however, some of the newer areas are still acting up.

He worms his way out of the enclosed space, biting his bottom lip to withhold groans as his joints give audible protests. Thirty-four years old and here his body is cracking like his grandfather’s. Maybe he should have taken one of Phlox’s hyposprays after all.

“Are you alright, sir?”

Trip almost jumps out of his skin. Like prey being hunted he whirls around, toolkit clattering against his thigh, and comes eye to eye with Crewman Fletcher’s slightly shorter frame. An apologetic look crosses across his face. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Ya didn’t scare me,” Trip says far too quickly. He studies the crewman carefully, almost suspiciously, a wave of guilt washing over him. Last time they saw each other Trip left him to monitor the station’s systems all on his own. He hasn’t apologized for that yet. “Ah, listen, I-”

“Did you need any help, sir?” Fletcher interrupts.

Trip blinks, a bit taken back. “’scuse me?”

“With the door, sir. This is the section I’m most familiar with.”

“Actually, I just finished.” Trip clears his throat awkwardly. “Thanks anyway.”

Fletcher nods curtly. “Alright, sir.”

For the briefest moment Trip feels a surge of anger well up in him. Crewman Fletcher is not doing a very good job at hiding his feelings, as hard as he may be trying. A part of him wants to snap at him; tell to respect his superiors.

_Can you blame him?_ a nagging voice whispers. _You left him alone to manage something big all by himself. How would you feel? Proud, maybe, but also hella nervous._ “Ah, Crewman!”

Fletcher turns from where he’d been walking away, eyebrows raised. “Yes, sir?”

“Hol’ on a minute.” Trip jogs to catch up with him. “Listen, ah, I just wanted ta apologize. Fer leavin’ you alone like that.” _Get a grip, Tucker; you sound like when you asked Rachel on that date in grade eleven!_ “As yer superior, I shouldn’t’ve left somethin’ that important to a crewman.”

And now he sounds vaguely insulting. Damn. Fortunately, Fletcher doesn’t seem to notice. “Was I that obvious?” he whispers under his breath.

“Hm?”

“Oh, nothing, sir.” He seems to struggle to look Trip in the eye. “In some ways, um, I guess I’m… honoured to think you considered me experienced enough to handle it? Though I see now that it was just an impulsive decision.” Trip feels another pang of guilt at that. “Either way, sir, it’s quite alright. Everything turned out well.”

“I think you handled it quite well, too,” Trip offers with a smile. “I’ll be puttin’ yer file in for a promotion recommendation.”

Fletcher’s eyes go wide. “Really? Uh, I mean, that’s not necessary, Commander.”

“I think it is.” Recollecting his toolkit, he straightens up and winks to his subordinate. “Now get back down ta engineerin’ an’ prove yerself.”

“Yes, sir.”

Trip watches the crewman practically skip down the halls with a grin on his face. Despite Malcolm’s current condition, just having him back has improved ship’s morale already, especially among the engineering crew. Trip thinks dejectedly that that’s partly due to his habit of reverting to “snappy superior” mode when things go wrong.

Ah, well. At least the armoury won’t feel quite so empty anymore.

His stomach grumbles, signaling a desire for lunch, and Trip heads in the direction of the mess hall, only realizing when he steps through the doors that he still has his toolkit in hand. A crewman gives him a funny look as she steps by on her way out.

“Commander!”

Trip follows the noise and smiles when his eyes land on Hoshi and Travis sitting at one of the closer tables. Quick to grab a tray of what looks like steak, he awkwardly tucks the toolkit under his arm and stumbles towards them. “Hey.”

“Good to see you,” Travis greets. “Straight from work?”

“I, ah, didn’t have time to put my stuff away.”

Hoshi laughs. “What, your stomach was that demanding?”

It’s refreshing to have such a light-hearted conversation again. No one is worrying about the fate of their tactical officer; no one is tense or confused about the direction they’re going in; Trip isn’t being haunted. Everything back to normal.

“I went to see the Lieutenant this morning.”

Trip freezes mid-chew.

Well, almost everything.

“He’s looking a bit better,” continues Hoshi. Her head is inclined slightly, her focus on playing soccer with her food rather than eating it. “Phlox shaved him – said something about it being unhygienic.”

Trip forces himself to laugh. “I imagine Malcolm’s face’ll go red when he hears that.”

“Who said anyone’s gonna tell him?” Travis adds innocently. Hoshi bats him on the arm.

“You think he’s just going to wake up and go, ‘oh, good thing my beard decided to stop growing for two months’?” For a linguist, she does such a shoddy imitation of a British accent that Trip chuckles for real. Or maybe it’s the way she managed to lower her voice a ridiculous amount. Either way, it feels good to laugh again.

“Did the doc say anythin’ about _when_ he’ll wake up?” Trip asks just a little too desperately.

Hoshi’s smile falters. “Sorry, Commander. As far as I know, he’s keeping them in medically induced comas for trauma reasons or whatever it was. I’m not a medic, I don’t really know.”

Trip nods, forcing a bite of his lunch down his dry throat. It can’t be good if Phlox is keeping his patients comatose. He tries to convince himself that it’s just because of Malcolm’s frequent tendency to escape prematurely.

Normality. Oh, how he longs for it.

Suddenly he isn’t hungry anymore and he stands abruptly, jarring the table a bit as he does so. “I, ah, think I’ll get back to work.”

“Commander Tucker…” Hoshi’s eyes darken with guilt and Trip almost chokes.

“It’s nothin’,” he reassures the linguist. “I just realized I still got half my checklist unfinished. ‘t was nice talkin’ with ya.” Then, flashing the ensigns what he thinks is a nonchalant grin but must look like a grimace, he turns on his heel and walks out of the mess hall.

Trip wants to go down to engineering, he really does. There’s nothing more he longs to do than bury himself in work until he collapses from exhaustion (on second thought, that might just earn him a one-way ticket to sickbay), but heavy limbs and a dull throb in his skull say otherwise. He comms Lieutenant Hess to let her know.

_“Understood, sir.”_ The younger engineer pauses. _“Are you alright?”_

“I am completely fine, Lieutenant.” Exhausted he may be, but apparently not enough to refrain from snapping at his subordinates. “Just get the engine checks done an’ put together a report. I’ll be back in the evenin’.”

_“Yes, sir.”_

The throbbing in his head dies down a bit as he reaches his quarters. He steps into the solitude, flicks on the light, and frowns. Something is off.

It’s the same room he’s come home to almost every night: same unmade bed, same collection of family photos, same view of the stars through the porthole. So why does it feel so different? So empty?

The realization hits him like a ton of bricks to the face.

It’s because Malcolm isn’t with him anymore.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “When the weights we carry break us,  
> we’re tempted to stay down.  
> But every road to recovery  
> starts at the breakdown.”  
> \- The Miracle, Rise Against

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ones a bit shorter unfortunately, but I hope y'all enjoy it all the same! Some, though not all, of the questions are getting answered...

He stands perfectly still beneath the showerhead, letting the stream of water rinse off the muck and engine oil which cakes his skin. No wonder his team has been flashing strange looks in his direction, he realizes – he hasn’t showered since he first got out of sickbay four days ago. He’d spent a solid hour in the shower that time. Wasted a good portion of his hot water ration, no doubt, rigorously attempting to cleanse himself of every last molecule of the alien station.

Before he wastes yet more water, Trip switches the shower off and reaches for his towel. He emerges with it wrapped around his waist, glancing briefly at the corner Malcolm would stand in to avoid any cause for embarrassment. Absentmindedly, Trip wonders if Malcolm remembers that too.

_“Phlox to Commander Tucker.”_

No sooner has Trip tugged a shirt over his head does his intercom chime with the doctor’s cheery voice. “What is it, doc?”

_“I don’t want to disturb you, Mr. Tucker-”_ too late for that, thinks Trip “ _\- but would you come down to sickbay, please? There’s been a development you ought to be aware of.”_

“Yeah, sure. I’m on my way.”

Barefoot and with hair still damp from his shower, Trip sets course for sickbay. What little crew are wandering the halls stop to stare but never for longer than a second. They have, after all, become accustomed to seeing their chief engineering in various states of dress – or rather, _un_ dress. It wasn’t that long ago that he darted for the captain’s quarters wearing nothing but his blues.

Trip reaches his destination and finds Archer and T’Pol already there, engaged in hushed conversation with the doctor. A few steps closer reveals Ensign Meng hovering about, apparently fascinated by her hands, and Crewman Cutler preoccupied by the monitor above Ensign Hamaya’s bed.

After hesitating at Malcolm’s side for a few seconds, Trip approaches the group somewhat cautiously. Neither of the previously kidnapped men look much better than when he last saw them. Trip’s stomach turns when he realizes that Phlox could quite possibly have bad news.

Well, no use running from it. “Hey, doc. Cap’n.”

“Commander,” Phlox greets cheerfully, while Archer offers the engineer a smile and a light clap on the shoulder. “Good of you to come. Oh, your hair is wet. Am I correct to assume you were bathing prior to my call?”

Trip nods mutely, unsure why his face is heating up. It’s not like he hasn’t been asked worse questions before.

“Well, I apologize, Commander, I didn’t realize. If it helps, you don’t smell at all! Not that I can tell, at least-”

“Doctor,” T’Pol interjects, much to Trip’s relief, “may I suggest that, instead of discussing Mr. Tucker’s bathing habits, you inform us of what you found?”

Phlox, thankfully, takes the hint, smiling politely. “Of course, Commander T’Pol. Excuse me while I collect my results. I believe I left the PADD…”

Once Trip is certain that he can put off dying from humiliation, he lets out the breath he’s been holding, doing his best to ignore the muffled snickers coming from the captain and Ensign Meng.

“Ah, here we are!” Doctor Phlox comes bustling back to the group with a PADD now in his hand, his expression less jovial and more serious. “Yes, it took much longer than I expected, but I believe I’ve discovered the cause of Mr. Reed’s sudden heart failure. Do follow me.”

Leading them over to the large screen bolted to the wall, Phlox turns their attention to the two near-identical scans. “Both Mr. Reed and Mr. Hamaya have a small, near microscopic device implanted in their hearts. They’re located around the aorta. Their purpose seems to be to give off sudden electric shocks designed to cause severe chest pain, arrhythmia, or to stop the heart from functioning completely.”

Trip swears his own heart stops functioning. He never had any doubt that whatever the aliens did to his friend was horrific, but knowing the truth is much different than merely speculating.

“Doctor, those aliens had remotes,” Archer says. There’s a slight tremble in his voice. “They had remotes that were no doubt connected to these… devices.”

Trip’s gaze snaps up, the realization dawning on him, too. “Doc-”

“Gentlemen.” Phlox holds a hand up to silence the two men. “I am aware of this. Fortunately, I can reassure you that there is a range limit to these devices.”

“How far is the range?” Meng asks.

A smile crosses the doctor’s lips. “That’s the good news. It is clear they were meant to be used within a very short distance. Ten, maybe fifteen kilometres at most.”

The sigh of relief that goes around the room is unanimous. Still, worry prods at the edges of Trip’s brain. “Ah, doctor?”

“Mm?”

“About the devices…” Unintentionally, his eyes are drawn to Malcolm’s still form lying on the bio-bed some feet away. “Well, you can remove ‘em, right?”

The smile vanishes from Phlox’s face and just like that, Trip’s heart sinks. _No, don’t tell me…_

“And that is the bed news, I’m afraid,” Phlox sighs. “These devices are small yet intricate in design, and very delicate; not to mention the tricky location they have been inserted into. I’ve never seen anything like it. Any attempt to remove them could only cause further damage to the patients or even death. It’s a risk that I, as a doctor, am unwilling to take. I’m truly sorry.”

A beat of silence passes. Trip lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and, to his surprise, discovers it comes out eerily similar to a morbid chuckle. “No,” he whispers. “No, ‘course not. That’d be too easy, now, wouldn’t it?”

“Commander, if there were another way…”

That tone. Trip despises that tone – like Phlox were talking to a delicate traumatized child. He opens his mouth to respond with something less than kind, but a shrill beeping stops him, followed by an anguished cry of, “ _NO!_ ”

The medics lunge to action and soon flock around Hamaya’s bed, trying to pin the ensign’s arms and legs down as he flails. Phlox has teleported to the bed-side monitor, frowning at whatever results he’s seeing. “’scuse me,” Cutler hisses as she pushes past Trip. The Commander takes a weak step backwards and bumps right into Ensign Meng. His eyes are glued to the frantic scene in front of him; ears on sharp alert, not that he can understand half of what they’re saying anyway.

“Respiration increasing-”

“Brainwaves are erratic-”

“Give him a dose of clonazepam-”

“I need that hypospray!”

A soft hand rests on his shoulder. Trip jerks at the touch, whirling around on his heel and comes face-to-face with his captain. “Let’s leave the doctor to his work, hm?” Unable to form coherent words, Trip only nods.

Archer leads him away from the chaos and towards the exit, T’Pol and Meng in tow. Trip takes one last glance at Malcolm and offhandedly notes how eerie his silence is compared to Hamaya’s desperate shouts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's sci fi. Weird invisible devices on the heart makes sense, okay?
> 
> If you liked this, please feel free to leave a kudos and/or comment <3


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Stay with me, don’t let me go,  
> because there’s nothing left at all.”  
> \- Ashes of Eden, Breaking Benjamin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was by far my favourite chapter to write. Aside from the strange sci-fi excuses, I actually had this all written out before I'd even written the rescue! XD I hope y'all enjoy reading it!!
> 
> Thanks to Rowan for beta reading and assisting with the medical inaccuracies.

Five days later, Trip finds himself standing in launch bay one, Crewman Cadrin and Ensign Almack a few feet away, staring blankly at the pile of bright orange metal in front of him. With no more use for the alien escape pod, Captain Archer ordered them to strip it to pieces and look for any identification clues. A black box of sorts, if they’re extremely lucky. Maybe a sentence or two written in alien script if they’re not.

“Almack,” Trip addresses the ensign, “take the port side. Winnie; you’re with me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Aye.”

But after two hours of combing through every nook and cranny, the only thing they have is the lock door on the code they discovered those couple of weeks ago. Hoshi managed to translate it in the end – just nonsense words, apparently. Their equivalent to “alphas” and “Charlies”. Even the small screen built in has been wiped clean at some time. After finding sensors built to detect and monitor life-signs, Almack suspects an automatic response to the death of the pod’s resident. “It seems once the pilot is dead,” he explains, “all information is erased as some kind of bizarre safeguard.”

“Can you recover it?”

The ensign promises to try.

Trip sighs and wipes a hand across his forehead, unknowingly leaving a streak of grease across it. “I really don’t think we can find any more hidden secrets from this thing,” he admits. “Unless it’s like that time ship – bigger on the inside.”

Cadrin cracks a grin. “No, sir. No evidence of that.”

“Good.” Trip drops his arm. It’s 1300 hours and his stomach is demanding lunch but he has more important things to do first. “See if there’s any parts we can use or adapt to be of use. Call me if you run into any trouble. I’ll be in sickbay.”

The ensign and crewman nod. They don’t mention the streak of grease across their boss’s forehead.

Trip stumbles through the frosted glass doors of sickbay and heads straight for Malcolm. Someone has already set up a chair beside the bio-bed, a blissful sight to his exhausted body. “How is he?” Trip asks as he sits down.

Phlox looks up from the computer screen, offering a small smile. “Mr. Reed proves his strength even when unconscious. He’s much easier to take care of in this state as well.” Trip snorts. “His external injuries are healing rather well. As for the internal, well, we’ll have to wait and see.”

“No change? Nothin’ like what happened to Hamaya?”

The gazes of both Doctor and Commander drift over to the second patient who is lying deathly still, dark eyes open but unseeing, breathing shallowly and quickly. He suffered two more similar moments of extreme panic before waking completely but hasn’t said a word since – just keeps staring at the ceiling as if in deep contemplation. “No,” Phlox admits finally. “Unlike Ensign Hamaya, Mr. Reed remains in his coma. Being honest, Commander, I am… beginning to worry.”

Trip ducks his head and finds himself transfixed by the dark marks encircling Malcolm’s pale wrist. Slowly, he takes his friend’s hand. The skin is rough and dehydrated – there are faint marks in his palm where his nails must have dug in. “Yer worried he won’t wake up.”

Phlox nods grimly.

Suddenly something beeps on the monitor above Malcolm’s bed. Trip’s no doctor, but any fool can read a heart monitor.

And any fool could see the steady rise in Malcolm’s respiration.

“Doc?” Trip whispers. Phlox is already at his side, frowning; adjusting the IV line that feeds into Malcolm’s left arm. Crewman Cutler appears, a hypospray in her hand. Phlox takes it and with a hiss, its contents is injected into Malcolm’s bloodstream, but his heart rate doesn’t go down.

“What’s wrong with him?” Trip asks, hating the desperation in his voice. “Is he waking up?”

“No, Commander.” The sombre tone coming from the normally cheerful doctor startles him. “I’m afraid that while Lieutenant Reed is in a coma, he is not experiencing very… pleasant things.”

Trip frowns. “I’m no professional, doc, but aren’t comas s’posed to _decrease_ brain activity? Malcolm shouldn’t be dreamin’.”

“No, he shouldn’t,” says Cutler.

“I can’t explain it, Commander. It’s just a fact.” With a sigh, Phlox straightens back up and nods for Cutler to return to her duties. “Mr. Reed’s vital signs were abnormally high when he was first brought to sickbay and they’ve only continued to rise. He seems to be experiencing an exceedingly distressing event. A memory, perhaps. That’s what’s keeping him from waking up – that’s what I am most worried about.”

 _He’s trapped,_ Trip realizes in horror. Unwittingly, his eyes pan down to Malcolm’s face, searching for any signs of visible discomfort on his features. There’s none. “Oh, Malcolm…”

His suffering never stopped. Trip may have saved his friend from whatever torture the aliens were doing to his body, but he can never save him from the torture happening inside his own mind.

Exhaustion hits him like a tidal wave. Trip leans forward and rests his head on the bio-bed, arm folded beneath it, his other hand clutching Malcolm’s like a lifeline. He’s still holding Malcolm’s hand as he drifts into a restless slumber.

\-------

He stumbles, almost losing his footing as another wave crashes into the side of the boat, only just managing to grab the rail before he falls overboard. His heart pounds in his chest, louder than the roaring waves below; the howling wind; the splintering of wood as the ravenous sea eats it away bit by bit. She isn’t going to stay afloat for much longer.

“Malcolm!” he yells again. His throat is raw from the constant effort to be heard. “Malcolm!”

The boat rocks again. Trip grits his teeth against the burn in his arms. He’s not going to give up. Not until he finds his friend. “Malcolm, where are you?”

“Trip?”

The voice is faint, little more than a whisper, yet it rises above the whistling winds and the frantic pounding in Trip’s chest. “Malcolm?”

“Trip?”

Forgetting all inhibitions, Trip lets go of the railing and practically dives towards the voice.

Malcolm is frozen in the doorway of the uppermost cabin, his arms stretched out on either side to keep balance against the ship’s rocking, the wind whipping at his hair. Trip can’t tell if he’s actually shaking or if it’s just the movement of the boat. “Malcolm…”

The response is drowned out when another wave crashes into the side. Water sprays onto the deck, soaking Trip and Malcolm in seconds. Malcolm lets out a screech like he’s been burned and shrinks further and further back into the cabin.

“Malcolm, I…” What does he say? Despite all the water Trip’s throat is dry, so he lunges forward and envelopes Malcolm’s slim frame in his arms. Indeed, the Lieutenant is shaking, but from cold or fear he does not know. Trip’s pretty terrified himself. “We need to get out of here, Malcolm.”

He feels Malcolm tense up against his touch. Frowning, Trip pulls away, taking in for the first time the intense terror in his friend’s eyes. _That’s right._ Didn’t Archer say something about Malcolm being afraid of the water?

“I can’t,” Malcolm stutters, his voice adopting a childlike quality that makes Trip’s heart break.

“Yes, you can, Lieutenant.”

“No, Trip, I-I can’t.”

“Malcolm, listen to me.” He grabs Malcolm’s shoulders in a death grip and forces their eyes to meet. “This boat’s gettin’ ripped apart. If you stay here-” they momentarily lose their footing as the sea proves just what Trip is saying “-you’ll be swallowed up too.”

Grey eyes go wide at this, but Malcolm shakes his head furiously. “I can’t,” he’s saying breathlessly like he’s just finished running a marathon. “I-I can’t go back. Not-t that place. I won’t. I can’t.”

“You don’t have to.” Trip has to yell to be heard now. The water is coming up fast, the cabin behind Malcolm already starting to flood. “We got you back, ya hear? Yer safe. Yer _home_ , Malcolm. You can come home.”

And just like that, the sea stills.

\------

Sickbay is a flurry of activity when Trip lazily raises his head. Medics fuss around at the side of the bio-bed, monitoring vitals and taking notes; Phlox is grinning happily at some scans and Cutler is injecting a hypospray into Malcolm’s neck.

_Malcolm._

Trip’s body jerks, suddenly fully awake. Before he can help himself the words “did I get him back?” tumble from his mouth.

Cutler gives him a funny look. “Back? Yes, you brought him back, Commander. Over a week ago.”

But Trip isn’t listening to her anymore. His focus is on his friend, a giddy smile dancing across his lips when tearful blue eyes meet exhausted grey ones. “Malcolm…”

He’s struggling to focus; a hint of terror flickers behind those irises that one would expect from a man waking up in an unfamiliar room. Sickbay may be far from unfamiliar, especially for their armoury officer, but Trip supposes after nearly three months of absence, it’ll be hard to adjust.

Absentmindedly, he lifts his hand and runs a thumb down Malcolm’s cheekbone. He startles though doesn’t pull away, and Trip’s smile only grows. “Welcome home, Malcolm.”

\------

“Is anyone sitting here?”

Sluggishly, Trip tears his eyes away from his glass of milk, blinking in surprise at the sight of Doctor Phlox looming over him. “Uh, no. Please.”

Phlox sits down across from him, smiling the same abnormally large smile he often wears. “Shouldn’t you be in bed, Commander?”

“I, ah, couldn’t sleep.” Trip takes a sip of milk to prevent having to elaborate his pathetic excuse. “What about you, doc? Shouldn’t you be in sickbay takin’ care of your patients?” Malcolm only remained conscious long enough to mutter something that sounded eerily similar to “hurt” before drifting back to sleep. A peaceful, dreamless sleep this time. Trip still stayed by his side until he was virtually shooed from sickbay.

“Crewmen Cutler and Jenkins are more than capable,” Phlox assures him. “I have faith in them. Besides, there is something I feel I must discuss with you.”

Trip offers a half-hearted shrug. “Spill.”

“’Spill’?” echoes the good doctor in confusion. Trip feels a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“S’rry. Human term. Means go ahead.”

“Ah. Based on context I should have guessed. Anyway, Commander, I believe I owe you an apology.”

For the second time in less than five minutes Trip is surprised. “For what?” he asks. “I don’t recall you doin’ anything other than good for Malcolm an’ I, and the rest of the crew.”

At this, Phlox shuffles uncomfortably in a way Trip has never seen him do before. “Everyone is susceptible to fault, Mr. Tucker.” An awkward silence ensues between the two of them. Eventually, the doctor clears his throat and continues: “Do you recall the evening you had that nightmare?”

“Yer gonna have ta be more specific, doc,” Trip chuckles wryly.

“Yes, I realize. It would have been… oh, not even a day after I released you. You commed me in the middle of the night and asked me to see you.” Trip swallows and nods. “I brought up the subject of an Earth folklore creature known as a guardian angel. You then told me, and I quote, ‘Malcolm seems to think the idea of him being a guardian angel is a bit far-fetched’.”

The imitation is so spot-on Trip draws back slightly. A small laugh bubbles in his throat. “Yeah, I remember. Ya got all quiet an’ the next mornin’ started askin’ for all those scans. An’ those meds, too. Is this about how I stopped takin’ them? ‘cause I’m really sorry, doc, it kept flyin’ from my mind.”

“No, nothing like that. In fact, I’m rather glad you stopped when you did. I was treating you for a condition you didn’t have, and it would have certainly brought on some unpleasant side effects had you continued.”

“A condition I didn’t have?” Not meeting his eyes, Phlox nods. “You mean…”

“While you slept at Lieutenant Reed’s side earlier today, the monitor picked up some odd readings. Naturally, I took scans. Of both of you.” He pauses. “Your brainwaves had synced up. The activity in the Lieutenant’s amygdala began to decrease. Yours did much the same, though not to the same extent. Further, I discovered some kind of… link between your minds.”

Trip almost spits out his milk. “A _link_? Ya mean we’re connected somehow?”

“You _were_ , yes. Not anymore. It stemmed from Mr. Reed’s hippocampus- uh, that is, his memory. He “froze in time”, if you will, and that somehow opened a link to your mind. I believe it happened sometime immediately after he rescued you. Your brain, unable to properly cope with the link, manifested the Lieutenant before you in a physical form in an attempt to try and make sense of it.”

“But…” Trip fumbles for words. “He seemed real. Like he was actually there.”

“And he probably was.” Phlox gives a short nod. “In a sense. A part of him was there with you, experiencing the very things you were exposed to, but another part of him was still in that station.”

Suddenly it all makes sense – in the same odd way that cybernetic aliens and sentient slugs do. Trip holds his head in his hands as everything flooding back; the nightmares, the memories that weren’t his, Malcolm’s periodic attacks. He feels like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. “Thanks, Phlox,” he mumbles, slightly muffled. “Really. That helps a lot.”

“Don’t be so quick to thank me,” Phlox says. His tone is melancholic; sombre, and Trip raises his gaze. “I truly am sorry, Commander, for all the trouble I caused you. I brushed you off, hastily rushing to a diagnosis that would realistically make the most sense. Out here, after all we’ve experienced, I suppose I should have been wary that not everything has a true medical explanation.”

The silence is suffocating. Eventually, Trip can’t stand it, and he blurts out, “Phlox, c’mon. It’s not yer fault.”

“Thank you, Commander.” A sad smile dances on the Denobulan’s lips. “However, an incident such as this cannot be overlooked. I have already submitted my report to the captain, and I accept any reprimand he sees fit.”

Trip’s mouth gapes open. “Phlox, ya can’t be serious! It was an honest mistake.” Before he knows it, he’s jumping to his feet, slamming his fist on the table. “I wasn’t exactly makin’ it easy for ya. Hell, I didn’t expect anyone to believe me. Sometimes I didn’t believe myself!” His voice has risen by half an octave. “Ya nursed me back to health for three weeks. Yer takin’ damn good care of Malcolm an’ Hamaya right now.”

“Commander-” Phlox also rises to his feet, his voice perfectly level “-I appreciate the sentiment. But tell me, if you made a mistake that almost cost the efficiency of the warp core, how would you feel?” Trip’s silence is an answer in itself. Phlox nods coolly. “Once again, I’m very sorry. Also, your words do not go unappreciated but I’m afraid it’s time for me to retire. I suggest you do the same, hm?”

“Yeah,” Trip says breathlessly. “Yeah, I’m, uh, gettin’ quite tired anyway.”

“Good.” The twinkle returns to Phlox’s eye as he reaches across the table, palm sideways in the familiar gesture of a handshake offering. Mildly confused, Trip takes it. “Talking to you has alleviated some of my anxiety. Sleep well, Mr. Tucker.”

“You as well.”

They part ways, Trip leaving his still half-finished glass of milk on the table while Phlox returns to sickbay. It was odd to see the doctor so solemn compared to his normally cheerful attitude. Completely understandable, just odd. Trip finds himself still contemplating on the words exchanged when he strips from his uniform. He exchanges the worn fabric for soft pajama bottoms and a thin top. Then he goes to brush his teeth, and that’s when he discovers the bottle of pills still sitting on the edge of the sink.

He flushes them down the toilet, half regretting it as he does so – the janitorial crew will be pissed with him for months. Still, he can’t hold back the smile on his lips as he watches the small pink capsules disappear among the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a kudos or a comment if you enjoyed <3


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tell me, did you fall for a shooting star?  
> One without a permanent scar,  
> and did you miss me while you were  
> looking for yourself out there?”  
> \- Drops of Jupiter (Tell Me), Train

The good doctor is still roaming around sickbay when Trip enters the next morning. Catching each other’s eyes, they exchange a knowing grin before Trip says, “how is he?”

“Sleeping.” Phlox drops one final cockroach-looking thing into a cage and gently snaps the lid shut. “Whatever you did yesterday certainly helped him regain his handing.”

Trip raises an eyebrow. “Handin’? I think ya mean regain his footin’, doc.”

“Oh, yes, I knew it was one of the two.” Phlox smiles good-naturedly. “I’m not keen on waking him up just yet but you’re welcome to sit with him if you’d like.”

“I can’t,” Trip replies reluctantly. “Bridge duty. I just came by ta make sure everythin’ was alright here.” He gives Phlox a pointed look, hoping the message gets across. Fortunately, the doctor nods.

“Everything has been dealt with, I assure you.”

“Good.” Just before he leaves, Trip lays a hand on Malcolm’s arm and watches the gentle rise and fall of his chest intensely, like if he looked away it would stop. Malcolm seems so fragile, so vulnerable as he sleeps. Some colour has returned to his skin – no longer does it match the sheets. His dark hair is still long and matted and splaying out in all directions against a soft pillow. Out of the coma, out of the danger zone, though not free quite yet. Trip wishes he could see those blue-grey eyes again. “Get better,” he mumbles, and steps out of sickbay.

He passes by numerous crewmen on his way to the bridge. They greet him with their standard “good mornings” and “how are yous” with a considerably lighter tone than what Trip has become accustomed to over the past few weeks. Seems like the return of the ship’s chief tactical officer has allowed everyone, not just Trip, to breathe a little easier.

“Glad to see you, Commander,” Archer greets him when he exits the turbolift. Seeing Trip’s eye wander over to the empty tactical station, he adds, “Ensign Meng is unfortunately stuck down in the armoury dealing with misbehaving torpedoes. All available hands are down assisting her.”

The suggestion clear, Trip seats himself upon the stool, which is just a little too high to accompany for his height. “Do I need ta remind ya that I’m an engineer, sir?”

“Yet not a good enough one to be familiar with the ship’s weapons systems?” Archer teases.

“Point taken, Cap’n.”

Even the light-hearted bantering is back. Trip lets the smile creep along his lips and slumps forward against tactical, just happy to watch the bridge. Hoshi catches his eye and grins.

“Sir,” Travis says suddenly, frowning at his console, “I’m picking up something.”

“Can you be more specific, ensign?”

“Yes, sir. It seems to be a ship.”

Archer, too, adopts a frown, and turns to the science station. “T’Pol, any match on the configuration?”

A few beats pass and then T’Pol nods. “Affirmative. However, you may not like the answer.”

“Out with it, Commander.”

T’Pol looks at him incredulously. If Trip didn’t know better, he’d assume that the slight crease in her brow is from worry. “The ship almost certainly belongs to the same species that we found on the space station.”

Suddenly there is no oxygen on the bridge anymore. Trip screws his eyes shut and hunches forward, dimly aware of his lungs spasming in a feeble attempt to draw in air. He wants so badly to call T’Pol out on a non-existent lie. _Pursuers. Damn pursuers._ He should have known. And if they are following them, there’s only one thing they could possibly want. “Cap’n-”

“I’d rather go down fighting than surrender Malcolm and Ensign Hamaya to them again, Commander,” Archer snaps, apparently reading his mind. Pure rage flames behind his eyes, softened by just the slightest bit of concern, before he turns back to their helmsman. “Travis, increase speed and plot an evasive course. Try and shake them off.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Captain, I must object to your earlier statement.” Three pairs of eyes turn towards their science officer in tense apprehension. “The Vulcans have a saying – the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. I have told Lieutenant Reed this once and I am sure he would agree with me when I say it is not worth sacrificing the ship for two men.”

“Ta _hell_ with yer Vulcan sayings!” Trip all but screams, lurching to his feet. His volume surprises even her. “You didn’t _see_ what they went through! Yer not the one who carried Malcolm’s broken body back t’ the shuttle! Yer not the one who had him _die_ in yer arms-!”

“Commander, that’s _enough_!” Archer barks.

Trip, suddenly aware of the tears blurring his vision, mumbles a weak, “yes, sir,” and slowly lowers himself back onto the chair.

Archer turns to the Vulcan officer, his tone softening only the slightest as he says, “I never said I would purposely do such a thing, T’Pol. But Trip is right – on some level – you’ve seen the condition those two men are in. The third washed up to us in an alien escape pod.”

“I am entirely aware of this,” T’Pol responds coolly. “But would you rather have the entire crew suffer the same fate? These aliens very nearly killed us the last time we exchanged fire. We still have not gone to Earth for repairs.”

The captain stares at her, fumbling for a response, but is fortunately saved from the task when Hoshi exclaims, “we’re being hailed. Audio only.”

“Put it through.”

Their most recent logic versus emotion argument has been put on hold. All eyes, including those of a certain Vulcan commander, stare in curiosity at the screen even though there is nothing to see.

“ _Karka… nyu ta teg…a-be’sh…”_

“I’m working on clearing it up, sir,” Hoshi says before Archer even has the chance to ask. “The translator isn’t… well, there’s not enough on the language to create an accurate program.”

“But we have the language on file?”

“Some of it. And even then, it’s only written. They could have a completely different alphabet for speaking than they do for writing, for all I know, sir. It won’t be a clean translation.”

“I’ll take whatever we can get,” the captain huffs, clearly getting impatient. “Let’s hear it.”

A few clicks and beeps later, the eerie tin-like voice of the translator speaks over the alien tongue, echoing around the bridge. “ _Taken… warning_ ahbe’sh _will… give experiment… contact, negotiation not… fifteen_ balteg…"

“That’s the best I can do, captain,” Hoshi sighs in defeat.

Archer gives her a nod. “It’s good enough. They want their ‘experiments’ back, don’t they? And they’re giving us a time limit before they fire.”

“Yes, sir. But I can’t tell you how long a ‘balteg’-”

A flash of light catches Trip’s eye and he dives for the tactical controls, breath hitching in his throat. “Cap’n, they’re chargin’ weapons!”

“I guess we got our answer,” Travis says wryly.

The alien weapon discharges, the shot dissipating as it gets close. “They are two hundred thousand kilometres away and closing, warp four,” announces T’Pol.

Archer runs a hand through his hair. “Travis, go to warp four point five.”

“Yes, sir.”

_That’s not gonna help,_ Trip thinks desperately, remembering how Archer told him the ship could get to warp seven. He catches T’Pol’s eye and sees the same expression of doubt, but neither of them brings it up.

At least, not until she says, “one hundred thousand kilometres. They are approaching warp five.”

“We’re not gonna outrun ‘em, Cap’n” Trip says. “You remember how fast they can get. We don’t have any other option.”

The realization dawns on Archer’s face and he slumps forward in his chair with a sigh. “You’re right. Polarize hull plating and get Ensign Meng up here on the double.”

Trip nods and swivels his chair to press the intercom. “Tucker ta the armoury.”

_“Security, Tanner here.”_

“Ensign Meng’s needed on the bridge. Urgently.”

_“Got it. She’ll be three minutes.”_

Three minutes, as it turns out, is just not enough time. No sooner has T’Pol declared the distance as fifty thousand kilometres when another light flares up on the tactical console and before Trip can even open his mouth to warn anyone, the weapon impact has flung him right off the seat, head colliding with the hard floor.

His vision spins. Concentrating on not throwing up the breakfast he finally managed to get down, Trip pulls himself onto his knees. Through ringing ears, he can hear the captain bellowing orders and T’Pol listing off damage. “Direct hit to port side. No hull breaches, but significant damage to the corresponding corridors.”

A crewman comes and helps Trip back up to his feet.

“Our warp field is destabilizing.” Travis’ voice seems to echo in his ears, but the words and their meaning are perfectly clear. No concussion, then. “We’re dropping to impulse.”

There’s a small lurch as the _Enterprise_ drops out of warp. Moments later, the aliens come up behind them, weapons charged but not firing. “They’re hailing us,” says Hoshi.

“Ignore it,” Archer growls. “Charge weapons. Aim for their bridge.”

“Cap’n-”

“You’re an engineer – take a guess!”

Trip swallows and nods, turning his attention to the console in front of him. It’s not like he’s never sat here before during a crisis, but he can’t recall ever feeling this stressed. He locks weapons on the small bulge in the front of the ship and fires.

Direct hit. No damage.

“They have shields, sir,” Trip says. “I can’t penetrate them.”

“Increase yield,” Archer snaps. “And where the hell is Ensign Meng?”

Trip inputs the necessary commands but before he can even get a shot in, another ball of energy fires from the alien’s cannon. At least he is able to warn the bridge this time.

Trip grips the side of the console as the impact sends a harsh shudder through the ship. Something sparks beside him; the bitter smell of smoke fills his nostrils and seeps into his lungs. He coughs a few times before lifting his head and assessing the ship’s status. “Hull plating down-” he coughs “-ta seventy-three percent. There’s a breach on deck B.” Reports are flying in by now, and he can barely get a thorough glance at any of them. _How the hell does Malcolm do this?_ “Seven casualties reported so far, no fatalities. Oh.” Trip sucks in a breath at the next report.

“What is it?” Archer demands.

“One of the turbolifts malfunctioned in that last attack.” Trip raises his head to meet his captain’s eyes. “Two ensigns’re trapped in there. One of ‘em is Ensign Meng.”

A colourful string of curse words erupts from Archer’s lips. With no experienced tactical officers on the bridge, Trip just became their stand-in.

He doesn’t have much time to get used to the position. When the console gives off another warning blink of light, Trip lurches into action. “Travis, move our ass!”

Somehow, the odd phrasing gets through to the helmsmen. The shot just misses their stern. Trip moves to counter, choosing carefully choosing a spot that is less shielded. Still no hull damage but the shields are starting to buckle.

That’s when the comm on Archer’s chair goes off. _“Phlox to Captain Archer.”_ There is no doubt a frantic tone laced in the doctor’s voice.

“Archer here,” the captain replies. “Go ahead.”

Trip keeps his eyes on the screen, firing small bursts at the weakest point in the alien’s shielding, but his ears are wide open to listen to conversation.

“ _Captain, I’ve lost Lieutenant Reed.”_

Everything freezes. Trip feels like a fifty-ton weight has been smacked against his chest. The bridge screeches to a halt, heavy silence falling, though with the pounding of his own heart in his ears Trip isn’t aware of this. _You can’t be serious…_ Had Phlox miscalculated the range of the remotes? Was sickbay hit harder than they thought?

“Uh… say again, doc?” Archer squeaks.

_“When the patients started flooding in, Lieutenant Reed asked me what was going on. I told him not to worry and turned to attend to some of the injured crew members. However, when I turned around, he was gone. He’s not meant to be upright so soon.”_

Oh. _Oh._ Trip chokes back laughter, earning strange looks from those around him. Lost. Literally lost. As in Malcolm had run off. _Of course._

_“I should have kept a closer eye on him, captain, I’m very sorry.”_

“Don’t worry about it,” Archer reassures him. A small smile of his own dances on his lips. “Any idea where he went?”

_“Knowing the Lieutenant? Armoury, probably. But I can’t exactly afford to go looking for him, captain.”_

“I understand. I’ll send someone to keep an eye out.” Trip cringes at the idea of a poor security officer navigating the ship while turbolifts are malfunctioning and walls are being blown. “Archer-”

The captain doesn’t even have time to terminate his own communication, a blast of alien weapons does that for him. Even though he expects it, Trip still knocks his head against the console, seeing stars. Sound becomes muffled, as if he were underwater. Vaguely, his ears pick up a cry of pain, mumbled words that sound like the captain – and was that a turbolift door opening?

Trip bangs his fist gently against his temple as if it’ll do anything to help the ringing. That hit seems to have given him the concussion he narrowly missed last time. With a groan, he forces himself back to reality.

And almost falls off his seat again.

Standing a mere foot away from him is Malcolm, bent over the tactical console in furious concentration, and Trip half-believes he’s still seeing things, until he realizes the bridge crew’s gazes are transfixed on the Lieutenant too.

Malcolm seems to be unaware of his own appearance – sickbay pajamas, a few day’s worth of stubble, hair that reaches almost to his collar – as he vigorously taps away at the console. “Travis, try and bring us around to their starboard side.”

It’s the first time Trip’s heard him speak more than a few words. The gravelly sound of his voice seems to surprise Malcolm, too, for his eyes widen just a fraction. He dismisses it quickly and turns to Trip. “They have a weak spot. Right here.” He’s pointing at a small area of the alien’s shielding highlighted in red. “This is their backup engine system. Get that.”

“Why their backup?” Trip asks.

A familiar look glimmers in Malcolm’s eyes, a look once thought to be gone forever. “For some unfathomable reason, the backup runs most of their weapons strength. Knock that out, the best they can give you is a few burns.”

“Coming up on their starboard side,” announces Travis.

“They’re charging weapons again.” T’Pol.

“You sure about this?” Trip.

Malcolm nods, face suddenly serious. “I’m sure.”

So Trip aligns the targeting sensors and fires.

He doesn’t know right away if his shot succeeds. The blow given just seconds before _Enterprise’_ s counter knocks harshly into the already-abused ship. Trip fumbles for something to hold on to, expecting cool metal but grabbing warm flesh instead.

Malcolm yanks him upright and the two exchange a grin.

“It worked,” T’Pol says from across the bridge. She gives Malcolm a narrowed-eyed look of approval. “The majority of their weapons are offline.”

Malcolm wastes no time in jumping to his next instruction. Bringing up a new highlighted area he tells Trip, “shoot an electrical impulse here. It’ll disrupt their shielding for about five seconds. In that time, also target here-” yet another map is pulled up “-and you’ll have left them defenseless.” A victorious grin spreads across his pale lips, and Trip realizes only then that Malcolm is sweating. Staying on his feet this long is obviously taking its toll.

He’s about to voice this when Archer barks, “Commander!”

Malcolm’s instructions prove correct once more when the aliens’ shielding goes down just long enough for Trip to get a shot in at their generator.

T’Pol glances at her console and Trip swears she gives a sigh of relief when she says, “they’re moving off. Going to warp.”

With a cry of joy, Trip lunges to his feet and pulls Malcolm into a tight hug, taking in the scent of anesthetic and sickbay soap almost overtaking the familiar smell of the Englishman but not quite; of how even though he’s almost all bones Malcolm still leans into the warm embrace with a small laugh that tickles against Trip’s neck.

“Thank you,” Trip hears himself choke out. He forces them to part so he can stare into those blue-grey eyes he’s longed to see for months now.

“You’re welcome, Trip,” Malcolm whispers.

Then without warning, he collapses as a dead weight in the engineer’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm to the rescue!


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, wake me up when it’s all over,  
> when I’m wiser and I’m older,  
> all this time I was finding myself, and I,  
> didn’t know I was lost.”  
> \- Wake Me Up, Avicii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, the answer to the question everyone (Trip especially) has been dying to know...

Patience has never been Trip’s forte. He shuffles on the bio-bed, itching to do something with his hands as Phlox runs the scanner over his head one more time.

“Will you _please_ hold still, Commander?” Phlox practically begs. “I am trying to ascertain just how serious your concussion is.”

“It’s can’t be that bad,” Trip insists. “I’m not- _oh._ ” A wave of nausea washes over him, and he folds in on himself with a groan. “I mean- I mean, I’m not _that_ …” The words die in his mouth. Bile and the breakfast he tried so hard to get down this morning rises in the back of his throat.

Phlox takes a step back, eyeing him in concern. “Shall I fetch a bowl?”

“Nah,” Trip gasps. Forcing the disgusting substances back down, he rights himself, giving a strained smile. “I jus’… need a day or two off.”

“For once, we agree.” Phlox beams. “The bright lights in here are probably affecting you more severely. Once you return to your quarters, I’m sure the nausea will subside. Just remember to keep the lights off, and try to stay away from any straining work, hm?”

“Trust me, I will.” Trip slides gently off the bio-bed, cringing as his vision spins. Through the blur he sees Phlox extending a hand to help him and he swipes it away. Once he can see properly again, Trip finds his gaze wandering to the bio-bed one over, where Malcolm lies with his head turned away from him, breathing softly. The moments following the Lieutenant’s collapse on the bridge were little more than a panicked blur. Trip recalls the thin trembling form in his arms; someone shouting for medical help – himself, perhaps?

A hand on his shoulder. Captain Archer’s. Two medical crewmen sprinting to his side with a stretcher between them. The announcement that Malcolm had merely collapsed from exhaustion sent a unanimous sigh of relief around the bridge.

“Is he gonna be okay?” Trip asks quietly.

“Nothing a little rest can’t fix,” Phlox assures him.

Trip can’t help but chuckle. “Rest? Malcolm? Good luck.”

“I’m sure I can provide an… incentive,” Phlox says, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Besides, I could always lock him in his quarters.”

Now Trip laughs for real, ignoring the pangs of pain his head sends in protest. “Never thought you’d have an evil streak in ya, doc.”

“It is a trait most doctors find beneficial to acquire.” Phlox clasps his hands behind his back and smiles. “Now then, Commander. Back to your quarters, before I have to lock you in there as well.”

Dreading the thought of being locked in his room, Trip all but bolts from sickbay.

He sleeps fitfully. Twice he wakes up, barely able to stumble into the bathroom before he empties the contents of his stomach into the toilet. By the time five rolls around he gives up on trying to sleep entirely, instead choosing to lay in his bed like a limp sack of potatoes.

As fate would have it, however, drowsiness begins to set in a half hour before his shift and Trip thinks, with the same air as one’s famous last words, _I’ll just close my eyes for five minutes._

Next thing he knows he’s awoken by a foul taste in his mouth and the chronometer blinking tauntingly at him, 0900 hours.

“Shit!” Trip hisses, rolling off the bed and groaning as the sudden movement disrupts the peace within his head. Vision spinning, he concentrates hard on not damaging his already abused throat, he stumbles blindly for the intercom. “Tucker t’ Archer.”

_“Archer.”_

“Cap’n… please tell me my clock’s fast.”

_“What do you mean?”_

Trip runs a hand over his face. “Nevermind. I’ll be reportin’ in soon, jus’ give me a sec.” He’s about to click off the call when Archer interrupts him.

 _“Oh, no you don’t, Commander. Phlox told me you have a concussion. You’re off duty for today.”_ He sounds vaguely amused. Trip fumes for a split second and then, realizing the captain is right, breathes a sigh.

“Right. Uh, thank you, sir.”

_“No problem, Trip. Get better. Archer out.”_

After struggling with his uniform for a solid five minutes (how the hell did he manage to get his right arm in the left sleeve?), Trip eventually gives up on his image and stumbles to the mess hall in a tank top and sweatpants. Fortunately, there are little to no crew mingling about, and the stares of those who are around he can handle. At least he doesn’t have to engage in halted conversation with anyone. _Enterprise_ took one hell of a beating yesterday; on top of the tedious state the ship was in already. It’s no wonder the captain has them back on course for Earth.

Trip’s mind begins to wander. Has Archer told Malcolm and Hamaya’s families yet? Surely, he has. Trip finds himself thinking of Madeline and the letter Malcolm had him send to her forever ago. He finds himself wondering if Stuart Reed is preparing to send another accusing letter to the captain. He knows little of Hamaya’s family, yet he thinks about them, too, and before he knows it, not only his mind has wandered.

The doors slide shut behind him, suddenly alerting him of where he is. Sickbay. Granted, this was his next stop, though it’s eerie how his unconscious mind seems to know before his consciousness.

Malcolm is propped up on his bio-bed, brow furrowed in concentration, struggling to reach a cup of water on the table next to him. His left wrist is encased in a sprain cast while the other is swaddled with bandages which snake up his biceps, disappearing beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt. He’s kicked off his blanket, revealing a metal brace on his right leg that Trip thinks looks more like a torture device than something to reset bone.

“Need any help with that?” Trip asks innocently.

Malcolm’s gaze snaps around to meet his, cheeks taking on a pinkish hue. “Er, no, Commander. I can manage.”

“There’s nothin’ wrong with needin’ a bit of help.” Trip seats himself on a stool next to the bed and carefully picks up the water glass. Malcolm looks utterly horrified at the idea of being helped to drink and Trip wants to laugh at his expression but, given the reason he’s in this situation in the first place, can’t bring himself to.

“Commander,” Malcolm stutters, “you don’t have to.”

“What kind o’ friend would I be if I didn’t?”

Seemingly too exhausted for a fight, Malcolm admits defeat and allows Trip to bring the glass to his lips. Neither man resumes eye contact until the last drop of water is gone.

“Thanks.” Malcolm gives a contended sigh and flops back against his pillow. “I just… hope you can forget that.”

“Forget what?”

A chuckle escapes Malcolm’s lips before he sighs once more, breathing evening out into a pattern, and Trip thinks he’s drifted off. Not that he minds. He’s perfectly happy to just sit there and watch his friend sleep, alive.

“Are they gone?” Malcolm mutters into the silent sickbay.

“Who’re you talkin’ about?”

“The aliens. From before.”

“Ah. Yeah, they’re gone.” Trip grins down at his friend. “Thanks ta you. How’d ya know where to target?”

Bad question. Trip realizes this as soon as Malcolm’s eyes fly open and fear dances in those grey irises. He wants to back-track; opens his mouth to apologize, but Malcolm answers anyway.

“They had me… hooked up to this machine thing. Injections in my arms; my head. Suddenly I wasn’t in my body anymore. I was wandering.” His eyes take on a glazed look, as if staring at something that isn’t really there. “I could hear them, though I wasn’t in the same room as them. I knew their ship schematics. Their… plans for Ensign Hamaya and I.” Tears begin to well up, much to Trip’s horror. “Ensign Rivers… they had plans for him, too. But when we attempted our escape, they left him behind.”

“Escape?” Trip exclaims. “Ya mean, ya tried to get out of there?”

Malcolm’s gaze turns to him as if suddenly remembering he’s there. “’Tried’ being the key word.” A sad grin tugs at the corner of his lips. “It was like they were amused at us. Just lab rats, desperate to escape. It was all a game to them. I don’t remember much. Hamaya had to drag me, I think, I was quite… well, out of it doesn’t even begin to describe it.”

Familiarity. There it is again, stirring in the deepest pit of Trip’s soul.

“They stunned us,” Malcolm continued. “Hamaya and I. Rivers had already made it out. One of the escape pods. They didn’t go back for him. I didn’t know why. I still don’t know why.” The question is evident in his tone, but Trip can only shake his head. Malcolm sighs softly and leans his head back against the pillow once more, muttering a dejected, “right. Should’ve known he wouldn’t get very far.”

For some reason Trip develops an overwhelming urge to take Malcolm’s hand and squeeze it, the memories of Rivers’ still body on the bio-bed only two over. Malcolm could have come back to him like that. They all could have come back to them like that.

Suddenly, as if reading his mind, Malcolm reaches out and takes his hand, eyes filled with worry. “Commander? Are you alright?”

Trip finds himself unable to respond. Staring into those grey eyes he realizes that they hold no recognition, nor did they flicker with any sort of familiar notion when Malcolm was recalling his escape. But Malcolm was there when they found Rivers’ body. Malcolm was horrified when Trip told him. Malcolm made him promise not to pursue anything, and Trip broke that promise.

Yet nothing about Malcolm’s expression hints at any sort of recognition. Trip feels his throat swell up, tears threatening to seep over his eyelids.

Malcolm catches this and his worry only grows. “Trip, what’s wrong?”

“Do you remember?” Trip blurts. Deep down, he already knows the answer.

Malcolm’s eyebrows knit together. The movement is followed by an array of emotions Trip is not used to seeing on their armoury officer – doubt, fear, confusion, anxiety. “Remember what?” he says, unknowingly parroting the words Trip spoke when Malcolm asked him the very same question.

He feels like breaking. He almost gives in to the urge, as well. Whatever Phlox said about a link it’s obviously been shot to hell now. _Get a grip,_ Trip scolds himself. _He’s been through shit; it’d be a miracle if he_ did _remember anything._

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” the commander forces himself to say. “It’s nothin’.”

Unfortunately, he forgot Malcolm’s tendency to hang onto things even after he’s told not to worry about them.

“No, Trip, tell me,” Malcolm insists. “It’s clearly disturbing you. Is there something I _should_ be remembering? Did… did something happen the captain?”

“What? No, Malcolm, the Cap’n’s fine. He’s even been in ta see you.”

“Oh.” Malcolm falls back in relief. “That’s good. I can’t seem to recall him visiting, though. Perhaps I was too out of it.” The brief smile that appears on his lips vanishes as he remembers the point of the conversation. “What is it, then? Is there something about the alien ship you want to know? I think I can recall their defense systems if I try hard enough-”

“Malcolm,” Trip cuts him off, “that’s not it at all.” Their ever-stubborn Lieutenant has him backed into a corner now. Fortunately, Phlox chooses this exact moment to step through the sickbay doors, returning from wherever he galivanted off to.

“Lieutenant! Commander! I apologize for intruding. You aren’t bothering my patient, are you, Mr. Tucker?"

Trip feels the tips of his ears go red. “No, doc. Jus’ talkin’.” He looks back at Malcolm, willing his friend not to say anything and luckily, Malcolm obliges. “I should get goin’ anyway; got some work waitin’ fer me. Personal,” he adds, seeing Phlox about to object.

“I see,” says the doctor. “I wish you good luck. Now then, Mr. Reed, it seems the dermal regeneration treatment is working splendidly. If you would just let me use my osmotic eel-”

“No, thank you,” says Malcolm in his clipped accent, already trying to make himself one with the mattress.

Trip laughs and gets to his feet. “I’m afraid yer fightin’ this one alone, Malcolm.”

“Traitor,” Malcolm spits playfully.

As Trip approaches the frosted glass doors, he can’t resist one last glance back. Maybe he’s hoping Malcolm will call after him, tell him he _does_ remember, but no such words come. Trip feels empty as he leaves.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s been a long road,  
> getting from there to here.”  
> \- Where My Heart Will Take Me, Diane Warren, Russell Watson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is - the final chapter. Hopefully you all find it a satisfying wrap-up. I wanted to keep some things open but still allow for a happy ending! ^v^
> 
> This has been... a ride. Starting off at a mere 19 chapters, I can't believe how much this fic has grown. I would never have believed this could get 100 hits, let alone 1000! Thank you very much to Rowan for beta reading and the other members of the Enterprise Discord for pushing me forward. Thank you to all you lovely people who offered kudos and comments and stayed with this fic all the way through! Your support means so much to me, I can't even put it in words! <3
> 
> And now... go forth and read!

Over the next few nights, Trip dreams of strange things. He dreams of treacherous seas and shipwrecks, of metallic walls and the feeling of claustrophobia. He dreams of worlds he’s never seen before and bright red blood spilling onto a sterile tiled floor. They have him waking up in a cold sweat, Malcolm’s name on his lips, but he doesn’t know why, and though the images fade as the day goes on, he’s left with a lingering sense of uneasiness.

Trip does what he always does when he needs to distract himself – bury himself in his work. He doesn’t try to talk to Malcolm and Malcolm doesn’t try to talk to him. In fact, Trip is sure he’s being avoided. The thought makes his heart sink. He manages to convince himself that it’s just because Malcolm needs time with his family, time to process everything. The last thing he needs is his friend fussing about when he already has a doctor to do all that for him.

It doesn’t make the chasm between them any more bearable.

Finally, five days after Malcolm has been released from sickbay, Trip lays down his wrench and calls Lieutenant Hess over.

“I’m turnin’ in for the night,” he says wearily, brushing at the sweat on his forehead. He isn’t sure, but he thinks he sees relief cross the Lieutenant’s face. “Yer in charge of engineerin’ until night shift gets here.”

“Yes, sir,” Hess says.

He spends a good few minutes just hesitating outside of Malcolm’s quarters, wondering if this was a good idea. What if Malcolm’s on a call with his family? Friends on Earth? Trip can’t just barge in unannounced, unwelcome. He almost listens to the little voice inside his head telling him to turn back but another one, this one sounding suspiciously like Archer’s, tells him that he’s just putting off the inevitable.

So, Trip takes a deep breath and rings the bell.

There’s no answer.

Frowning, Trip rings it again. “Malcolm? You in there?” The lack of response is worrying and a whole dozen worst case scenarios begin to whirl around in Trip’s mind. What if Malcolm’s hurt himself? What if he’s ignored the doctor’s orders to eat and is lying on the floor passed out from exhaustion? What if he hit his head? What if he’s dying?

 _What if he’s just in the damn shower?_ his mind says exasperatedly, but Trip has already keyed in Malcolm’s door code and steps inside.

Save for the unmade bed and the blinking computer monitor, the room is almost exactly the same as Trip last saw it. Unconsciously, his eyes move towards the photo of Malcolm with his sister, surprised to find it hasn’t seemed to have moved an inch. “Malcolm?” Trip calls out. The bathroom door is open and he’s not in there either. 

_Malcolm’s gonna kill me,_ Trip thinks, glancing around the room. The computer monitor catches his attention, and he steps closer. There’s an alert blinking on the screen.

**_Communication: Madeline Reed_ **

**_Terminated_ **

**_21:33 hours, September 29th, 2156_ **

Trip checks the chronometer. Malcolm terminated the call less than ten minutes ago, so where is he?

Tracking down one missing Malcolm Reed is never as easy as it looks. As their ever-paranoid security officer, Malcolm took it upon himself to memorize the layout of every nook and cranny on Enterprise, planning escape routes and figuring out weaknesses in design. Saying he could be anywhere is no exaggeration.

Somehow, though, Trip finds him in record time. He’s in the observatory lounge. The place is pitch dark and if it weren’t for Malcolm’s decision to raise his head at that very moment, Trip would have missed him completely.

They lock eyes. Neither man says anything. Eventually, Malcolm sighs. “If you’re going to stay, Commander, would you please shut the door again?”

“Sorry,” Trip squeaks. He fumbles for the button, the door swooshing shut behind him and the room dives into darkness once more. No, Trip realizes, not complete darkness. A couple of candles lie on the table in front of Malcolm’s couch. “Where’d you get those?” Trip enquires, stepping closer.

“Commander T’Pol,” Malcolm answers. “She gave them to me for meditation purposes.”

“I knew they looked familiar.” One of Malcolm’s eyebrows quirks up. “Well, have they been helpin’?”

Malcolm shrugs. “Somewhat.”

Trip eyes his friend carefully. Despite the soft glow of candlelight – or perhaps because of it – he can see plainly that Malcolm’s answer of “somewhat” translates to “rarely”. He hasn’t been sleeping; at least not well. There are dark smudges under his eyes. The long hair and beard are gone, revealing hollow cheekbones and almost microscopic lacerations around his temples and along the back of his neck. One of the larger lacerations is rimmed with bruising. A long-sleeved blue sweater hangs off his thin frame.

“You know you can sit down, right?” Malcolm says. “It’s not as if I’ve staked a claim on this couch.”

Trip sits down with an awkward flop and it’s almost funny how Malcolm bounces a bit at the sudden change in weight against the cushion. Almost, because it shows just how much weight the man has lost.

“I talked to Mads this evening,” Malcolm says.

Trip bites his lip to stop himself from saying _I know_ , instead moving to ask, “how’d it go?”

A warm smile crosses Malcolm’s lips: it reaches his eyes this time. “It went wonderfully,” he says softly. “I missed her. Really missed her. My parents have written to me, but I have yet to call them. I told them we’re returning to Earth. Trip, I…” Malcolm trails off, eyes cast downwards. “Mads told me about the letter you sent her. The one I’d written just before… everything.”

Trip’s breathing hitches.

“I acted like I was surprised.”

The words take a minute to sink in. “You… uh, what?” Trip stutters very articulately. Malcolm laughs – _really_ laughs, his face seemingly glowing in the soft flicker of the candles. “You remembered?”

“It’s hazy,” Malcolm sighs, “but yes. To an extent, that is. I don’t- I can’t recall everything. I was in two places at once, after all. I’m still having trouble differentiating what’s real and what isn’t.”

“What d’you mean?” Trip blurts.

A pained look crosses Malcolm’s features and he hunches forward, squeezing shaking hands between his knees. “Some of the things they showed me… they weren’t, ehm, very pleasant.” At the crack in his voice, Trip suspects things were worse than Malcolm is letting on. “Some-sometimes it was… I was back. On Enterprise, I mean. But things were different. The halls were illuminated by a blood red light and I wasn’t- there wasn’t anyone else around except me. I’d walk and call but the only an-answer I’d get was whispering voices I couldn’t really understand.

“Then I’d be back. Drifting in between, stuck in limbo, I suppose you could call it. There’d be pain. I could hear your voice, Commander.” The rank hits hard. Malcolm’s detaching himself from the experience. “Screaming. Suffering. I couldn’t do a thing about it.” To Trip’s horror, tears start to glide down Malcolm’s cheeks as the grey gaze stares off somewhere far beyond. “Hoshi. Sweet, innocent Hoshi. It would be her sometimes. Or T’Pol. Or the captain. It didn’t matter who. I still couldn’t save them.”

“Malcolm,” Trip whispers, “I’m sorry. I-I had no idea-”

“You wouldn’t.” Using a sleeve to wipe the tears away, Malcolm squares his shoulders and falls back into the cardboard cut-out that is Lieutenant Reed. “I apologize, Commander. I don’t know what came over me. You really didn’t need to hear that.”

“But you needed to get it out, didn’t ya?”

A beat passes. Slowly, Malcolm nods.

“Listen.” Despite his better judgement, Trip shuffles closer until he and Malcolm are pressed shoulder to shoulder. “You went through hell. Nah, scratch that, you went through hell _an’_ back. Twice over. Yer allowed to feel overwhelmed, distressed, pissed, whatever.”

Malcolm chuckles sadly. “I’m afraid ‘pissed’ doesn’t describe what I’m feeling, Trip. I’m not angry. Bloody hell, I know I should be.” With a heavy sigh, Malcolm leans forward, elbows against his knees, and buries his face in his hands. “I don’t have any energy left to be angry. I’m scared. I’m worried. But I’m not angry.

“I… can’t sleep, Trip. Haven’t slept properly in a while. Every time I close my eyes I’m back there, strapped to that bloody table as they tear me open.” His arms fumble around his chest, directly over the scars; a gesture that Trip takes a few seconds to get and feels sick once he does. “Mind; soul. I felt so invaded. It’s like they took something from me. Yet, no matter what, I can’t bring myself to be angry at them. It’s just a numbing pit of defeat that I’m drowning in. Unable to escape. Unable to get over it and continue on with my life. Pathetic, isn’t it?”

Trip blinks, the brief image of a ruined boat being tossed among the waves flashing against his eyelids. “Pathetic?” he repeats. “Yer not pathetic for feelin’ like that.”

Malcolm scoffs in distain.

“Anyway,” Trip continues, “it’s hardly somethin’ you can just _get over._ Hoshi told me that Hamaya can’t stand the sight of sickbay for the time bein’. The guy’s a medical officer. He just needs some time.”

“That’s different.”

“How so?”

“Ensign Hamaya isn’t in charge of the crew’s safety,” Malcolm says as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Trip brings a hand to his forehead. “Is that what this is about? Yer worried you can’t do yer job?”

“I _can’t_ do my job, Trip!” Malcolm snaps. With a burst of movement, he lurches off the couch, arms tugged tightly around himself, his back to Trip. “I’m responsible for keeping eighty-two people safe. _Alive._ How am I supposed to do that when I can barely get three hours of sleep a night? How am I supposed to do that when I can’t even hold a phase pistol still? When loud noises make me flinch and literally anything could set off a panic attack?”

Trip gets to his feet as well. He lays a gentle hand on Malcolm’s shoulder, refusing to lift it even when the man flinches away. “It’s been eight days, Malcolm. Yer not gonna get back to normal in eight days.”

“How long will it take, then?” Startlingly, Malcolm whirls around to face him, expression twisted into one of pain. “A month? Two? If I don’t pass my next exam, Trip, they’re going to pull me off duty.”

“Hey, now, you don’t know-”

“I am very familiar with Starfleet protocols, Commander,” Malcolm snaps. “My mental state alone is reason enough for them to put me off duty indefinitely. I’ll be forced to give up everything I love. Everything I’ve worked hard for. This crew has become like a family to me and if I don’t get my bloody _shit_ together, I’ll lose it all.”

Trembling severely, panting like he’s just run a marathon, Malcolm’s legs give out under his weight and he collapses back onto the couch.

Trip follows suit. Not even stopping to think about the consequences, he wraps an arm around the Lieutenant’s shoulder and tugs him closer. He receives no fist to the face. Instead, the most shocking thing to have happened since they first got him back, Malcolm leans into the embrace, burying his face against Trip’s shoulder. Hot tears seep through his uniform in seconds and thin, bone white hands clutch the navy-blue fabric like a lifeline.

“It’s alright,” Trip hears himself whispering. “Yer okay, Mal. Yer safe now.”

With silent sobs wracking his body, Malcolm lets himself break.

“Yer not gonna lose anythin’, ya hear?” Trip uses his other hand to rub soothing circles against Malcolm’s back, a gesture he used to use on his sister when she got upset over something. “Cap’n isn’t lettin’ you go that easy. Neither am I. Neither is anyone else on this crew. We’ll fight Starfleet tooth an’ nail if we have to in order ta keep you. It’s just as you said. Yer our family too.”

Malcolm draws in a deep, shuddering breath and mumbles something inaudible against Trip’s uniform. Trip draws back slightly.

“What was that? I didn’t hear ya.”

“I said, I’m sorry, Commander.”

“What in the hell for? An’ don’t you dare say for breakin’ down on me again, ‘cause I will personally kick yer ass back to Earth two months in advance if you do.”

Malcolm pulls back, laughter dancing in his tear-shined eyes. “For ruining your uniform.”

Both men look down at the giant wet stain that’s appeared on the front of Trip’s uniform. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. I’m due for a uniform change anyway.”

Malcolm laughs softly, still leaning against Trip. “I never thought I’d see you again,” he whispers nearly inaudibly. “I-I never thought I’d ever see my family again.”

Trip, unable to think of an appropriate response to this, wraps his arm around Malcolm’s shoulders instead. The two men sit in silence for the remainder of the evening, watching the silver streaks of stars flying by. _Home,_ Malcolm thinks. His eyes close by themselves and fatigue washes over him. _I’m really going home._

And Malcolm falls into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.


End file.
